There was another thing I heartily disbelieved in - work. Work, it seemed to me even at the threshold of life, is an activity reserved for the dullard. It is the very opposite of creation, which is play… The part of me which was given up to work, which enabled my wife and child to live in the manner which they unthinkingly demanded, this part of me which kept the wheel turning - a completely fatuous, ego-centric notion! - was the least part of me. I gave nothing to the world in fulfilling the function of breadwinner; the world exacted its tribute of me, that was all.— Henry Miller
Sunday, 1 May 1955
The Fabulous Fifties were nowhere as fabulous as they seem in retrospect if you were sent to Korea to fight a war that was euphemistically called a Police Action. Harry Truman sent off a ragtag army of poorly equipped troops in the command of one of the great megalomaniacs of all time, five-star General Douglas MacArthur, who, despite accurate intel, was convinced that Chinese armies would not dare to cross the Yalu River.
As a reluctant non-com, I served three hitches before, during and after, the war in Korea from 1948 to 1955 in the 101st Field Artillery Battalion of the Massachusetts Army National Guard. Its origins went as far back as 1636 and was also home of the famous Battery A, or Harvard Battery, where scions of privilege served their country. Since our enlistments were frozen, we were required to stick around and wait for the call-up which fortunately never came.
Earlier, in 1951, I married Ruth, a talented and beautiful student at Massachusetts School (now College) of Art. She was 19, I was 22. We moved into the usual pig pens available to newlyweds in the Boston area, sanded hard wood floors, scraped thick grease off stoves and kitchen ceilings, repainted, and hung wallpaper. Finally after two years of improving the property of stingy landlords, we bought our first house in Concord, Massachusetts, where we planned to stay for two years until we had built up some equity. That, coupled with savings, was going to finance an extended trip to Europe. We planned to stay until our stake ran out.
Ruth studying French and Italian by listening to Assimil records.
We got to Europe on board the Dutch steamship Ryndam, one of the ships that catered to young and impecunious adventure seekers. We boarded in Hoboken, New Jersey, and sailed to its first port of call, Cobh, in Ireland. In 1955 flying was for the rich.Our accommodations were in tourist class where it cost $180 for a one-way ticket across the Atlantic, while being housed in very tight quarters, but lavishly fed. Heineken beer was 10 cents a glass
Ryndam, at Cobh, formerly Queenstown, Ireland
To tell this story I will be consulting pages from one of my Europe notebooks:
Irish waiter, Wynn's Hotel, Dublin. Breakfast: grapefruit sections in syrup left in can at room temperature full of acid. . . . Then: porridge or corn flakes, eggs [and] sausage with [broiled tomato] with it or [with] liver or [with] bacon, which is more like ham. Always cold toast on [toast] rack with butter curls and marmalade. Coffee or tea. . . . Rough Irish bread very good. . . . A note is also made calling attention to the waiter's dirty shirt collar.
Ruth described it as a delicious breakfast with lots of silver, blue Willowware, and napkins of tissue such as you would find in gift boxes.
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