Or so she hopes. The tour has become a logistical nightmare.
Every one of the orchestra's 60 members needs a carnet—a temporary international customs document that costs about £500—to allow their instruments to enter the EU.
They may also need separate work permits for every country, each of which has different stipulations. The process could take weeks.
For EU citizens coming the other way, there are also headaches. They need to apply for "temporary leave to remain" permits.
And the perception that the U.K. is now a hostile destination will make it harder for sectors that rely on lower-skilled EU workers—
including the National Health Service, plus large parts of the hospitality and construction industries—to recruit from the Continent.
Nwanoku puts down her double bass and opens her e-mails, scanning for news on the permits.
12:30 p.m., Calais, northern France
Moore drives up to the first customs checkpoint. A lady with long, curly brown hair wearing sunglasses approaches his window.
She asks to see his paperwork and studies it closely.
"C'est quoi?" she asks. What is it?
"One box. Aircraft parts," Moore says, putting on a slight French accent.
"Cigarettes, alcohol, tobacco?" the woman asks.
"Nothing. Zero." Moore says.
With that, Moore rolls forward and his vehicle is weighed.
Across the channel in Dover, Bannister is in his office at Harbour House, with views of the white cliffs.
It's been a busy morning. He's updated Cobra, and he's spoken by phone with counterparts in Calais and Dunkirk, with Kent Police, Highways England,the harbor master, and Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs.
Opposite his desk is a framed letter from 1941 in which wartime Prime Minister Winston Churchill commends "the courage and resourcefulness" of the people of Dover.
It's a reminder the town has weathered far worse times.