Sometimes the veil lifts and you see a grander world beyond the smaller one you inhabit on this little orb, the earth. You can feel the hand of god in a chance meeting, traveling to a foreign land, getting a job, it doesn’t matter how you feel it, just that you feel it. And sometimes you won’t feel the importance of an event until you look back on your life, then you will get that some thing is preordained. And that was my Junior year abroad in London. Going to London would change the trajectory of my life forever.
It was my high school friend Philip who suggested doing a junior year abroad in London and I jumped at the chance. Philip had dark hair and black eyes; he looked like a young Tyrone Power, but our relationship was strictly platonic. Philip and I went on completely different programs. I was on an acting program where you studied with teachers from two of England’s preeminent acting schools: RADA and LAMDA; he went to a program at the London School of Economics. It was during this time I’d fall in love with Shakespeare—though I didn’t want to actually act. I just wanted to absorb all the Shakespeare I could (though you become one with Shakespeare by acting Shakespeare).
I wasn’t a good actress. That was one problem I faced. A famous RADA teacher/Shakespeare interpreter, David Perry wrote in his critique of me: “I beg Cara to re-think her vocation, she’s too self-conscious to be an actress.” Which was very true. I was a hider. I could be very social without letting anyone really know me—and one thing you need as an actor is an ability to let people see you. This is why I took drugs and drank. It freed me from the bondage of self, it let me relax and be able to connect with you and let you in. Nonetheless David Perry’s wording was needlessly harsh. I had no intention of making acting “my vocation.” I was 19 and didn’t know what I wanted to do in the world, but I knew it wasn’t acting. I just wanted a year in London. I wanted to go where Philip was going.
Even though I felt the trip was preordained by god, I didn’t drink any less in London It turned out that my higher angels were watching over me, even when I drank. I even managed the flight from JFK to Heathrow without getting loaded or laid in the bathroom.
All students on my program lived in an apartment building on the corner of Earl’s Court and Cromwell Road in Kensington called Huntington House, which had a cavalcade of male receptionists, one weirder than they next. And they hated us students. They wouldn’t put our calls through and one put up a sign on the front desk reading, “Cara Coslow is persona non grata.” Why? I don’t know. We called him Albert Einstein for no real reason except he was insane and an idiot. He’d come to work with white plaster on his knuckles and head from bashing both against the wall.Another receptionist we dubbed “Leslie Howard” for his slight resemblance to said actor. There was a maintenance man who worked with his girlfriend Kathy. He was constantly calling in his cockney accent, “Kafee, Kafee, where are you Kafee?” So naturally we dubbed him Heathcliff.
What made that year so important?: That was the year I met Arthur and Liane and Vivian who would go on to become my family.
I was in bed early one night when I heard raucous laughter coming from the kitchen of our flat. I didn’t know who was laughing but it was two people playing off each other and having a wonderful time. I wanted to be a part of it. I wanted to know these people.
I got out of bed and walked into the kitchen. Liane, my suite mate, was there facing a boy sitting on a mini fridge. He had a shock of golden hair which he brushed back. He looked like a Russian poet. This was Arthur and I fell in love with him immediately. He and Liane had an easy shorthand with each other, cracking each other up with references unknown to me. Arthur began singing a song he wrote called “Botticelli Chicken” to the tune of “Fascinating Rhythm.”
“Hi I’m Cara, who are you?” I asked Arthur mesmerized.
“I’m Arthur” He said. I don’t know if either of them wanted someone horning in on their party, but I was determined to be their friend and would stick the thin end of my wedge into their lives. I don’t know how we became so close except I must have invited myself along everywhere they went and eventually developed more than a friendship. I could banter with them fluently and felt I’d always known them. We explored London together. It seemed we were always at a tube stop on our way somewhere; or else we walked and walked about the neighborhoods of London. At night we went to fancy restaurants playing grown up: La Gavroche, San Lorenzo, The Ivy. We took long drives to Exeter, Devon, and Cornwall. We went to see Stonehenge, Tintagel, the ruins of King Arthur’s castle according to folklore, and Glastonbury. When we drove through Somerset, Arthur turned to Liane and said, “We’re in Somerset Mom,” pronouncing it “Maugham.” We also had a light in the car that went on when you were low on gas. If one of us said, “The gaslight is on,” the rest of us replied, “No it’s not,” in reference to the movie gaslight. These are the jokes that at nineteen you find wittier and more sophisticated than George S Kaufman. We laughed our way through the southern England all the way to Penzance. Vivian was a Georgetown friend of Arthur and Liane’s, also on a different junior year program, but did most things with us.
On Arthur’s 20th birthday he put on a tuxedo and we had a black tie birthday celebration at The Savoy Grill where we drank cocktails followed by magnums of Champagne, and we danced. I was the only one for whom consuming this much booze wasn’t a monumental occasion.
Arthur was on a different junior year program and didn’t live in quirky Huntington House with us. Our apartments had brown shag carpets, plush sofas, TV’s. All bad seventies decor but comfortable. Arthur lived in a bedsit, in other words, one room with a bed and desk, near the banks of the Thames. You had to put coins in the meter to get heat. Very John Osborne. I walked into his bedsit and said to Arthur and Liane, “This is the kind of depressing English bedsit you hang yourself in.” I’d been there two minutes and I wanted to hang myself.
“The last guy who lived here did hang himself,” said Arthur.
“I knew it!” I said, “You’re getting out of here. You’re moving in with us.”
Our apartment was fully occupied, but I went to Lorna—whom due to a drinking habit we called Lorna the Lush—the manager of Huntington House with a bottle of gin and 40 British Sterling and she gave us a great apartment that Arthur, Liane, our friend Ann Katz and I all moved in to. Ann was a lovely girl with a beautiful singing voice and was the perfect addition to our suite. It was a one bedroom with four beds: a pull out couch in the living room that slept two which Arthur and Liane shared as they were sort of dating, and two full sized beds in the bedroom which Ann and I stayed in. Catherine Fitzgerald from Westport CT was on the program too and spent a lot of time with us. She was a tall beautiful blonde with a true Connecticut wasp aura and she could jump into our jokes easily. I particularly liked being around her. She made me laugh. We stocked our fridge with cookies called McVitties and Catherine would come in and say, “Shall we have a Vitties?” in a conspiratorial voice. People would come and go in our tight familial circle but only we belonged there.
I’ve always known certain things will happen before they do. It doesn’t occur that often but when it does, there’s no mistaking it. It’s other worldly. I’ll think of the most casual acquaintance only to find out they just died. I’ll know who’s on the phone before I pick it up. I’ll know a song will play the second I turn on the radio, and not a popular song—it could be a song my father wrote or a hit from way back when, that’s never played. The second I click play the song will come on. It feels as though I’m reliving something I’ve already lived through. In a way my relationship with Arthur sprung from that eternal well. Before I was to leave for Europe my mother and I went to see a psychic who worked out of a restaurant on east 57th a few blocks down from where we lived. We both wanted to know what would happen on my trip to London. I think my mother wanted me to meet my future husband. We sat at a table with this strange thin and quite young woman. She didn’t make eye contact and had no time for pleasantries or small talk. She was withdrawn and remote and said many things of which I only remember one: “You’re going to meet a blonde boy in London, he won’t be your boyfriend, but he’s very nice.” I know this was Arthur with whom, for all our love, I could have a doozy of a fight with. The reasons we fought are lost on me now, but there was the door slamming fight. We each slammed our doors so many times in a fury that we ended up cracking up. And then there was a more serious fight that occurred when I was very sick with pneumonia. “Please Arthur,” I said, “I’m sick I can’t take this upheaval right now.” Arthur started to cry realizing how ill-timed his anger toward me was.
But it was here in London that all the signs that predicted I was an alcoholic converged. The only trait of an alcoholic I didn’t have became full blown in London: I could be a vicious, angry drunk. I would have a complete change of personality when drinking—a hallmark that predicts alcoholism. I was a fall down drunk, a blackout drunk, but I’d never been an angry drunk until that year. The vitriol expressed itself one night (again a night I barely remember) during a party someone had in our building. The foggy memory I do have is of coming out of a blackout mid spewing venom at Catherine Fitzgerald. I was on a vituperative tirade. But I’d been in a blackout so I didn’t know what I was angry about even as I came out of the blackout; even as I spewed my anger. I had probably let other people have a piece of my wasted mind, but I just don’t remember.
I was mortified the next morning, afraid of the wrath I’d face from Catherine, Arthur, and whomever else was at the receiving end of my anger (and I had no reason to be angry with anyone) I didn’t understand why everyone was so kind to me the next day, all of them displaying graciousness beyond words. I don’t know what I said that night and I’ve never wanted to know.
There are scientific reasons for all this but I didn’t understand them then. According to neuroscientist Andrew Huberman, those with a predisposition for alcoholism, when they drink, tend to feel very energized and very good for a longer period of time before they will get tired or feel like they’ve had enough. There is an increase in alertness and mood when they drink and it takes them longer to start feeling tired or lose motor skills or slurring their speech. You can reliably predict people who are alcoholic and those who are regular drinkers by the timing of different effects of alcohol. Those who get a real lift and become the life of the party for a longer period of time are more likely to be the alcoholic.
With alcohol there is a suppression of neurons of the prefrontal cortex, the part of the brain responsible for thinking and planning and most importantly, the suppression of impulsive behavior. At a party you will notice the volume of peoples’ speaking will increase. As the prefrontal cortex shuts down people stop modulating their level of speech. You will also notice people gesticulating more, getting up to dance. These areas of the prefrontal cortex provide what is called top down inhibition by releasing a neurotransmitter called GABA which is involved in impulsive behavior and thought patterns. In other words people will say and do things they may not otherwise do. Alcohol also has a powerful effect on the parts of the brain responsible for memory formation and storage. Which is why alcoholics blackout. It also shuts down the parts of the brain which contribute to flexible behavior. In other words: I can do or say A or B. People who are alcoholic will say what they want to say or do what they want to do, without giving any thought to it. Hence my railing at Catherine and god knows who else. Also, these people will become more habitual and compulsive at times outside of drinking. It changes neural function.
Another interesting finding in the predictor of alcoholism, is how it changes the relationship between the Hypothalamus and the Pituitary Glands and the Adrenal Glands. The Hypothalamus is a small collection of neurons that control rage, sex drive, temperature regulation, hunger and thirst. People who drink regularly experience a release of cortisol and as a consequence they feel more stress and anxiety when they are not drinking. When the Hypothalamus, Pituitary, Adrenal axis are out of balance we experience a lower threshold for stress and depression. Lastly but something that relates to me most of all: those who drink at younger ages are at greater risk for developing alcoholism despite a genetic predisposition. Those who take first drink at thirteen are at a much greater risk than people who don’t begin drinking at 21. The age at which people start drinking really matters. I began at 13.
Terrific
This is a gem!!! Talk about immortalizing a moment!