i rode the tube with passive excitement. clammy-palmed, glad i hadn't let the gray overcast fool me. don't get it twisted, london gets hot. especially with carnival residue in the air, the friction of hips rubbed with bass lets loose a heat that can be felt all the way to the underground. i've come to know the tube quite well within 5 days; no longer cal it the "metro" or "bart" and i worked hard to drop that puppy-eyed tourist look ASAP.

rising to the surface of the picadilly summons a more humble attitude than, say, times square. there are the same animated fluorescent ads, carts vending heaps of grayish meat, tourists running amok with t-shirts that boast loving one city or another. i played the part well enough friday night, clumsily pub-crawling among multitudes of pink-tinged flesh, quickly coming to grips with the fact that, as someone who feels uneasy when surrounded by white people, europe may not have been the best place for me to go "find myself."



flash forward to sunday night. i mean, that's where i started this entry. i mean, i didn't realize that tiger tiger, the venue where i was to make my london stage debut, would be in the center of london's equivalent to times square. directly off the tube station "broadway" shows like mama mia and spamalot boast glamour with a touch of british elegance. a line has already formed a curve around the club's hip, projecting a look/vibe/feel close enough to america if not for the long drawn-out o's and rounded r's spilling from the scattered conversations. snaking straight into the front of the line, i approach the bouncer twice my height.

"hi, i'm performing tonight," i say as confidently as i can. maybe i said it in an english accent. i probably pretended that i was chewing gum (you always look harder when you're chewing gum).

"what's the name of the event." he doesn't ask, it's more of quizzing.

"poetry n' motion." simple enough name, maybe it'll mean something soon. it will mean something soon. when it all comes together, and tiger tiger, poetry n' motion, are recognized as the harbingers of adriel luis' london debut. one day. arrogant? perhaps, but why else did i fly my ass to london on a whim? why else but simply because in new york, while staying in harlem, i read about hendrix, and how he was staying in harlem before hopping one-way to london with only $50 in his pocket and his guitar on his back? he played at the pub bag o' nails the night he arrived and blew everyone away. but now it's sunday and i arrived on thursday, so i'm 4 days behind jimi and i've got to act like a rockstar.

bouncer twice my height steps aside and i walk into the arena where i am to lay the next milestone of my makeshift legend.

any pride i may harbor is completely overshadowed by the monstrous club. 5 rooms in 4 floors, violet lights hit at the open spaces that can hold over 1,000 people. poetry n' motion is in the basement, but far from humble. as i climb over the velvet rope, the house band is already touting intimidatingly precise skill. i seat myself at the corner, and let the asian girl on the cover of the menu keep me company.



besides my nervousness that my poetry doesn't go with music (and i'm sure the house band's presence means everyone else's will) i don't know how my thick california slang will strike these blokes.

soon the empty bar fills up, first with performers.

"hi, i'm adriel. oh, i'm a poet."

"we're money train. we rap. oh, we're from LA."

"oh word! oakland!"

smiles exchanged and nervousness eased as i come across a surprising number of cali heads.

"celecia." a poet and singer originally from sunnyvale california, then atlanta, now london, continued bringing home comfort with her lush west coast accent that i didn't realize how much i had missed. celecia has that glow. i understand that she's a performer even before it's revealed to me.



so, it isn't until the show's almost over that i realize i'm going last. not that i don't welcome the challenge of winning over a restless crowd that has endured 2.5 hours of music and poetry already, but it is a challenge. during intermission, the host pulls me aside.

"okay, the band's going to play, then marva's gonna sing, then you're next."

"okay," i say. who's marva? is what i'm thinking.

"up next!" shouts the host as the crowd returns from their respective waterholes, "all the way from LA...she's worked with stevie wonder, she's currently touring with prince, give it up for marva king!"

oh, that's marva. and i'm following her. with poems.

as marva lassos the crowd with her flawless cover of jill scott's "a long walk," i notice myself pacing. and sweating. a man at the seats grabs my arm and says, "don't tell me you're nervous, ay!"

"naw..." i shoot back, "i always pace...that's, um, just what i do...before i perform..."

by the time marva finishes, the audience is jumping and screaming and dancing and doing such things that suggest they're no longer ready for poems.

no, i think to myself, this is why you're here. pull them back in. with the audience still roaring, the host grabs the mic and nods to me. i nod back. or maybe i twitched.

"and now, straight out of san francisco, get ready for adriel luis!"

and at that it goes blank.

the first time i say, "i wanna take you on a journey, journey...put your fist up if you heard me, heard me..." maybe 5 of the 400 people respond. "wait...is my mic not working??" some laughs. "okay, lets try this again! put your fists up if your heard me!" all the room responds. got 'em.

somewhere into broken shoulder blades people start hooting. by the middle of spinnin' they're shouting back. by the time i break into slip of the tongue all clamminess has evaporated into pure adrenaline. it has become the kind of performance that i live for. punchlines that hardly ever work back home finally find solace at the response of my new audience, and for those next ten minutes, my poetry is convinced that it was written specifically for londoners.



the darkness of the room and the mass of cheering people at the very least helps hide the stupid grin i can't wipe off my face.

upstairs for the next four hours people let their bodies pulse to the speakers. london is celebrating itself, as am i. during random moments i get greeted by wide smiles and slaps on the palm. "good show, mate!"

"thank you...th-th-thank you." i'm cheesing like it was my first open mic. in between the thick bassline a woman grabs my wrist and leans toward me.

"keep doing your work, man. if you keep doing your work, i know you're going to make it." her eyes are sincere, her touch ripples through my body.

"thank you," i say. tonight, i already have, is what i'm thinking.