Monday, 16 May 1955
Two priests and a boy at Wynne’s for breakfast. One of the priests says, “This man will order for himself.” Kid grins from ear to ear. Returned the plucky little Ford Anglia at Murray’s Car-Hire where Mr. Russell, the manager, had my $50 traveler’s check cashed at a bank to give us the best rate of exchange. What a nice guy! Off with Ruth in the AM to buy tweeds for her and odd shopping. The lovely Sybil Connolly is there herself in her very haute couture boutique and too expensive for Ruth who loved everything (particularly the Connemara shawls and red petticoats) but said we couldn’t afford anything, we are already over budget. We have spent $170 so far and this is just the start of the trip. St. Stephen’s Green is a little green oasis in the middle of Dublin with a pond and gulls and lots of flowers.
A decent lunch at Bailey’s Restaurant is solemnly served by a young waiter assisted by a little boy in uniform. The waiters are all formally dressed but plaster is coming away from under the window sill, surfaces are painted and slightly clean but there's a hint of great dirt underneath. We find a cobbler in a shop that looks very Dickensian. He pounds what look like 10-penny nails into the delicate heels of Ruth's expensive shoes.
When we meet for dinner, B. has a guidebook which recommends the Dolphin Restaurant. Nobody seems to know where it is but we found it, unfortunately, in a shabby part of Dublin. Our waiter has dried egg-yolk spills on his black trousers, sweaty edges on his bow tie. Our sauce Bernaise is curled up like an omelet. Maybe it’s what he’s wearing. B. tells us it will get worse in Italy. [It didn't.] Return to Wynne’s for some more Irish coffee. It helps cheer us up.
B. wants bookkeeping done immediately. How about that? In three columns no less and right away. She wants to pay her share of the expenses but she doesn’t have an accounting of what her meals cost and won’t settle for a third of the dollar amount. I quickly discover there is no way I can divide pounds, shillings and pence. (At Murray Car-Hire I notice that they must rely on a printed chart to determine costs and taxes.)
Order another Gaelic coffee and watch the townies who come in for a round or two. So ends this day, as the old ship’s logs say.
