Down and Out in Saintes and London

 

Preface

 

The following two excerpts are from The Woman Who Changed Her Brain by Barbara Arrowsmith-Young, published by Free Press, a Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 2012. It’s interesting that London cab drivers actually alter their brains as a result of learning “the Knowledge”. This becomes important near the end of the story…

 

page 30

Such psychological changes are more difficult to measure in humans because noninvasive techniques such as brain scans must be used. But in several studies, scientists have been able to measure an increase in in gray matter as a result of specific and intense forms of learning. For example, cab drivers in London; who must learn a massive number of routes before being licensed, have significantly more gray matter than is typical in the right hippocampus, an area related to spatial navigation (more on this in chapter 17). And individuals who practice meditation show increased gray matter in an area of the brain linked to emotional regulation. Jugglers show increased gray matter in areas of the brain related to visual and motor activity.

 

pages 168 – 169

Eleanor Maguire, a professor of cognitive neuroscience at University College London, has studied the brains of London cab drivers, who spend approximately two years learning 320 routes encompassing 25,000 streets before being licensed to drive a cab in that city. Compared to a control group without this experience, the drivers brains were structurally different—specifically, in the posterior hippocampi, an area that plays a critical role in spatial memory The brains of the cabbies had changed as a result of their environmental demands.

 

Down and Out in Saintes and London

 

A few months before the 1987 European Juggling Convention, Robert Nelson pulled me aside at the Sunday gathering of jugglers in Golden Gate Park. We had both been at the 1986 European convention in Spain. Robert expressed a desire to maintain a more low-key profile at the coming event in Saintes, France, the tenth anniversary of the EJC. He had already planned a late-Summer/Fall tour of festivals and street shows in Europe, and was looking forward to taking a break at the convention, without having to be locked in to the role of the Butterfly Man. Near the end of our talk, he asked for a favor. Robert wanted me to remind him of this conversation, and get him to tone it down if the Butterfly Man started to flame out of control.

 

He was already at the convention site in Saintes when I arrived in the early evening of the opening day. He had driven down from the Netherlands with a group of jugglers in a Peugeot J7 camper van, which he had bought from Frank Olivier. The J7 is like a small version of a step van, larger than a regular van, with enough space for one or two people (maybe more) to travel and camp in relative comfort.

 

Even though nothing official was scheduled, and there was no stage, Robert was in the center of a group of jugglers, in full Butterfly-Man, take-no-prisoners mode. After things quieted down, I reminded him of the favor, and that, months earlier, he’d expressed a wish to have a much lower profile.

 

“I know, Todd,” he complained in that W.C. Fields style voice he could emulate, “but it’s the damn Germans! They won’t leave me alone.” I had to nod my head in agreement.

 

The organizers had arranged opening-night free pedal-boat rentals for the jugglers from the concessionaire on the Charente River. Dozens of jugglers had a wonderful time playing around, in, and on the boats. The current wasn’t that swift, and as long as you were cautious, there was little risk of drifting too far downstream to pedal back easily.

 

After hanging back to help the organizers, it was getting dark when I walked across the bridge to join the others in the juggling hall. Halfway across, I heard the sound of a lone boat with two energetic pedalers on the water, and an unmistakable voice crying out plaintively, “What about me?!” Looking down over the edge of the bridge, I spotted Robert and his partner determinedly pedaling back upstream to get their boat back to the landing dock.

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Robert and his van were staying in the campground, while the organizers had arranged for me to stay in a castle near the site. Our paths didn’t cross that often during the convention; however, I had made arrangements to share a ride with Robert, his van, and other jugglers that were headed to London on the last night. Turns out there were six of us making the journey, three Brits (Brian Reid, Nick Nickolas, and 'arry Pavarotti/André Vincent) and three Yanks (Robert, Big Karl, and me).

 

On the final night, it was already well past nine when Robert finally drove the van up from the campground to collect the remaining passengers and head north. While folks were loading their bags, Robert pulled me aside. Apparently, there had just been a fracas at the campground that ended with Big Karl slugging Robert because Karl “didn’t like how Robert treated women.” Robert’s request to me was to keep the two of them separated. If Karl was in the front of the van, Robert wanted to be in back. If Karl switched to the back, Robert and I were to move to the front. I remember thinking how generous and forgiving Robert was. I was pretty sure I wouldn’t have offered a ride to someone who had just hit me.

 

The journey began uneventfully, with Karl driving and Robert, Brian, and I in the back. The route from Saintes to the English Channel was new to all of us. It was a foggy night, and as there were no major highways, we were alternately driving through unfamiliar countryside and cities; consequently, Karl wasn’t driving that quickly.

 

Robert and I chatted in the back, while Brian dozed off. Brian startled us all when he suddenly woke from a dream screaming, “Karl is going to kill us. Don’t let Karl drive.”

 

It seemed like a good time to switch roles. Robert and I moved to the front, with me driving, while Karl and the others moved to the back. The others slept as Robert and I talked about inconsequential things until dawn when we finally reached the French coast and the ferry terminal. Robert took it upon himself to book a cabin for the ferry crossing, so I and others could get some rest. Hours later, we arrived in England in the late afternoon.

 

While the camper van was registered in the United Kingdom, it had been out of the country for quite some time. Don’t know how many owners it had gone through, do know that no one had paid to keep the tags current. Apparently, while out-of-date registration on British vehicles don’t raise any concerns on the continent, attempting to bring said vehicle back home is a great time to settle up accounts. We were pulled out of the customs line and told to park in the holding area while the British authorities investigated. As current owner of the van, Robert was asked to accompany some officials into the bowels of the customs and duty building.

 

This left the five of us in the van with a very thorough, methodical customs inspector. Since we were waiting with nothing else to do, he decided to go through all of the compartments in the camper van and everybody’s luggage. Even though the van was larger than most, it still was somewhat cramped. I don’t fault the officer for removing and setting down his hat before he began the inspection. After all these years, I guess I don’t even fault whoever thought it would be funny to hide the hat in one of the just-inspected compartments.

 

Believe it or not, inspecting jugglers’ kit can actually become routine after the third bag. Things get interesting again when the prop bag belongs to a magician. The highlight for me was watching the customs officer inspect Nick Nikolaus’ rigged Thermos jug, with the surprise marital aid that pops up when opened.

 

The inspection finally ended, no one was arrested, and we all cleared customs. Then the van was subjected to a second thorough probe; this time the officer was trying to figure out where his missing hat had gone.

 

Robert came back a few hundred pounds lighter but with current paperwork making the van legal, so we could head off. It was dark when we finally made it to London and began dropping passengers off.

 

Remember those references about the complexity of the London streets actually causing an increase in gray matter? Even native-born Londoners get lost when viewing the city from a new perspective, that of a surface vehicle instead of traveling via the Tube. It took us several wrong turns and several hours to find everyone’s neighborhood and drop them off.

 

I think it was around eleven p.m., maybe a bit later, when Robert and I found ourselves alone in the van with but one destination left. Robert had sold the van to one of the Wisdom brothers. (I don’t think I ever knew which one.) They were staying in France for a while, and had given Robert their house key so he could crash in their empty flat. All the two of us had to do was drive to the flat, let ourselves in, and the more-than-24-hour trip would finally be over.

 

Again, I’ll refer you to the opening comments about the complexity of the London road system. I was driving while Robert attempted to pilot us across town. He soon gave up as navigator, and he drove, while I attempted to use the London A to Z to get us to the Wisdom flat.

 

London is not laid out on a grid; not only that, reliable sources maintain that the modern streets are relics from the original cow paths. The city is flat, with few tall landmarks; I was forced to figure out where we were by finding the name of a street and locating it on the map with a flashlight. Several things made this more challenging than I would have imagined: 1) you can’t just open and spread out an A to Z map, you have to turn to the appropriate page; 2) for no apparent reason, the street names change after several blocks; and 3) when asked, Robert refused to slow down.

 

Instead of driving slowly enough to get some bearings, he would drive as quickly as possible, explaining, “We don’t want to look like tourists.” It was well past midnight by this time, and I doubted that anyone other than Robert cared if we looked like tourists or not. The absurdity of the situation, combined with sleep deprivation, soon caused us both to erupt into a giggling fit.

I completely bought into the idea of not slowing down. Robert explained that my job as navigator was simple, and directed me to tell him one of three things at each intersection, “Right”, “Left”, or “Straight”. It didn’t matter if we were making progress towards our ultimate destination or not.

 

We tore around London like that for a while, definitely not like tourists. While the J7 wasn’t fast, it had a high center of gravity and the internal commotion from all of the loose items rattling around inside made the ride seem more perilous than it was. After the laughing mania had subsided, Robert began ignoring my directions. I’d say, “Turn right at the next street.” and he would turn left, replying, “Nah, a left feels better.”

 

An epiphany came when I realized that London was built more like a wagon wheel than a grid. Rather than trying to go across town, it made more sense to find a major boulevard heading into the center and then find the spoke that would lead back out to the neighborhood we were trying to reach. While the theory was good, several false starts kept us driving and laughing.

 

Don’t know if it was our imagination, but it seemed like a couple of London cabs began following us. Robert suggested that we should consider hailing one of the cabs. He would hop in as the passenger, and I would do my best to follow the cab to the correct address.

 

Around three or four in the morning, we finally found the Wisdom flat. I got at least a couple hours of sleep before Robert woke me up, saying I had to grab a shower and drive him to Heathrow. He had a flight booked to San Francisco that day—his departure time had us driving in rush-hour traffic all the way to the airport.

 

Remarkably, we made it to Heathrow without incident. Robert pulled up to the departure terminal, unloaded his gear, handed me the keys, and said, “Enjoy the van. Return it to the Wisdoms in two weeks. By the way, there isn’t any insurance. If you get in an accident, just tell the other party, ‘I’m screwed’.”

 

My plan was to cautiously drive the car back into London and park it near a friend’s house. I almost made it, too. Got within two blocks of my destination when a stopped car forced me to pull the van partially into the oncoming lane of a busy, two-lane road. The side of the van scraped against a car heading in the opposite direction. I remembered Robert’s final words, said, “I’m screwed” as I pulled the van over to talk with the other driver. We inspected the damage on his late-model car, a small scratch along the side. I offered to buy him a bottle of touch-up paint. He sent me on my way without asking to see any ID or exchanging any information.

 

copyright 2012 by Todd Strong

 

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