"I write about motorcycles quite a bit... and hatred."

I arrived at the Poetry Cafe in Covent Garden to find the little place packed, not just with the usual, unshowered suspects, but a fair number of posh folks as well... and a large number of people altogether, over 50 I'd guess. We all packed ourselves into a basement that quickly became a standing-room-only sweatbox. The reading itself went on far too long for most of the audience's patience (starting around 7:30 and lasting for three hours, with one 10-minute break), so by the end of the evening it was just me, and the rowdy regulars waiting to have their name called. "Poetry Unplugged" is so popular that you have to show up an hour and a half before the reading starts to sign up, and even then they have to randomly pull names out of a hat to pick who will actually read. On my first trip out I observed rather than read... and luckily the crazy poets knew how to entertain.

The feel of the reading? Early on, a young man went up and said, "In poetry you get a number of white men trying to act tough -- I thought I'd add my voice to that." Clever and self-deprecating, sure, but he wasn't kidding. In fact there was a very high ratio of men yelling and gesticulating about one thing or another, usually some woman who -- most likely very wisely -- got away from them as quickly as possible. (One of them provided the title of today's post.) And they rhymed. I haven't seen so much rhyming poetry since my Intro to Poetry class four years ago! Perhaps this was because the general reading style leaned more towards slam, or performance, poetry... but this stuff would hardly have cut it at the Nuyorican Cafe in New York. Here's a little tidbit for you:

I can't believe the pain
and there's no one left to blame
for my lonely season waiting for you.

Yeah, that show should have been cancelled mid-season, buddy.

That said, sprinkled among the refuse were some real gems -- my favorite was a guy who read a series of haikus based on the love affair of a Buddhist monk and a Chinese emperor's wife. All in all, it was a fairly standard open mic in terms of the poetry itself, and the lively, encouraging crowd gave it, as one reader said, "a rock'n'roll feeling."

Yesterday I made my way to the biggest tourist draw in London, the Tower of London, and found it, quite naturally, full of tourists. Yeoman warders (military guys who now live and work in the Tower, giving tours and talks) give tours on the half-hour, all dressed up and making cutesy jokes and cultural references -- "This is a WATERGATE! HA!" -- but the tour starting when I arrived had a good forty people gathered around the energetic guide, so I shelled out £3 extra and did the audio tour, "The Prisoners of the Tower." Possibly the best £3 I've spent so far! For about an hour I ambled around the Tower with a big, nerdy grin on my face, pressing buttons to hear additional information about the Bloody Tower and the murder of the "little princes" (sons of Edward V and possibly sentenced to death by that blackheart Richard III), or the escape of a much-hated bishop who drank his guards under the table and climbed down a rope off the top of the White Tower, or a similar attempted escape by another bishop who had eaten a little too much lately, and whose rope broke.

The highlight of the tour, though, was when I was directed by the narrator to march down the steps from Beauchamp Tower to the scaffold outside, with drums pounding in my ears. "Imagine that your day has come... you have made your final confession, and there is no hope of escape. Now, walk out to the scaffold -- the Executioner is waiting." I did indeed march in time down the stairs, giggling quite audibly and receiving more than a few strange glances. The scaffold itself was a history nerd's delight -- so many famous necks severed in just one place! Anne Boleyn, Catherine Howard, Lady Jane Grey... Coming in second for historical interest was the armor I mentioned in yesterday's post, belonging to Henry VIII in his later years. What a big, fat man! I feel sorry for the horse that had to bear his weight, and the weight of his humongous armor. That horse needs a statue in Trafalgar Square!

...Which is where I headed next, actually, having an hour to kill before I met a friend for dinner in Soho. I didn't get to walk around the square itself very much, as a large portion of it was roped off for some filming project. People were crowded around the square on all sides, staring towards the bright lights and disembodied voice that kept declaring "Action!" and "Cut!" and many other, less audible exclamations. I asked several especially interested onlookers what was being filmed, and they all looked at me with the same disdain as they shrugged their shoulders. Apparently, they had shed themselves of that immortal human question, "Is anyone famous down there?"

So I retreated into the National Gallery for a very quick first look, heading for the Sainsbury Gallery, featuring paintings from 1200-1500 AD. Very, very impressive, and completely overwhelming: rooms and rooms and rooms of paintings, most of which are really worth a careful look. After closely examining a few rooms of unfinished Michelangelos, da Vincis, and a several paintings by "Unknown Netherlandish Master, ca. 1510," I decided that this veritable planet of art deserved its own day, at least, for a good look, and after buying a print of a delightfully strange painting ("Cupid complaining to Venus," by Lucas Cranach the Elder), I was more than ready for dinner.

(Speaking of dinner, a quick note for any of you who have not yet visited the United Kingdom. Don't expect a glass of water to magically appear at your table; you have to ask. And make sure you say "a glass of water," because otherwise you'll end up with some Evian or Perrier and an extra £2 on your bill. As someone who always needs plenty of water with her meal, I think this is an essential traveller's tip.)

After our meal, my friend and I took a short walk over towards Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road, turning down a tiny side street to find Bradley's Spanish Bar. The place has two tiny floors, full of bohemian, dilapidated decor and a young crowd looking to give off the same vibe. When we arrived, it was so crowded that we stood with a few others drinking our beers in the street. This began to seem perilous as cars drive down this narrow little street -- which somehow, amazingly, can fit a car, although just barely -- at regular intervals. But all was well, people were able to scramble up from their seat on the curb in time to avoid the manic taxi-drivers, and shortly before eleven (which is when bars shut here) we all toddled off to the Tube to make our way home.