Innocents Abroad

1 - Introduction

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.

2 - Is Getting There Half the Fun?

Monday, 2 May 1955

I had been working for a few years freelancing cartoons to Boston advertising agencies and an upstart company across the river in Cambridge called Polaroid. I had illustrated two text books for D.C. Heath and Ginn, and I had sold a spread to True magazine. I earned about $5,000 a year, of which $4,200 was left after taxes. It was the Good Old Days after World War II when you could keep your records in a shoe box. I shared space in a studio in a low-rent building across from a hotel of dubious reputation on Boylston Street where I had a drawing table, a stool, and a lamp. Note the ashtray. We all smoked cigarettes. We also wore shirts and ties because that was the dress code in those days. The British butcher's apron came from the Artisan's on Newbury Street.

On boardTuesday, 3 May 1955 

		The British Cunard Line used that as its slogan -- Getting There is Half the Fun. At least, it would seem, for much of the deck crew, until American girls found out about wearing skirts on deck where there is usually a breeze. The unoffical Holland America Line slogan was a play on their initials - NASM. Our stewards told us that it stood for Nice Americans Spend Money. Our second adventure was with stewards.
		Our first adventure was with bag handlers at the Holland America Line pier in Hoboken who grabbed our suitcases and demanded $10 right under the No Tipping signs. Dining room stewards were the next most aggressive tip hustlers but at least they weren't thugs. They wished they didn't have to work the tourist class crowd. So did we.
Once the stewards had received their end-of-voyage tips they ignored all of us. We only saw the backs of their duck's ass haircuts.
Actually we all tipped lavishly, considering the price of drinks. Imported beer was 10 cents, Drambuie a quarter.

 

3 - First Day at Sea

A halting attempt at note taking. Ball-pont pen.

Wednesday, May 4

Beautiful day – calm sea. Lounged in deck chairs all day – Bouillon served in morning by deck stewards and tea in afternoon. Spoke with real burgher type [tulip] bulb salesman – pink florid face – blond – spent seven months in U.S.: Detroit, Chicago, etc. Real anxious to get home. Homesick in U.S. because one and two nights here and there impossible to make friends. Have to buy them beers. Doesn't like shabby parts of the U.S. Pace too fast. He's wearing a large button pinned to his jacket that reads, "Relax."

Behind us Dutch kid who used to tend ski lift at Aspen bringing wife, also Dutch, back to Holland after five years. They had to scrimp to do it. Looks more American than Dutch: crew cut, tan, and narrow bow-tie.

At table is Irishman from near London with sideboards chopped off. Worked in Dorchester [working-class suburb of Boston] for six months, lived with sister. Going back, doesn't like it [in Boston]. All the houses are frame, not brick – fire traps.

Two Scots kids at end of table, good looking lads, one with a crew cut, looks like a Yank. They both love the U.S. and want to return – have been working on construction in Canada. Had beers with them, they moaning about dourness of the Dutch and others on board. All old. No dance tonight because of Van Johnson movie, which is jam-packed. Chamber music in the Palm Court. One Scot wants to "gie the fiddler a blanket. He looks so cold." They had both sailed westward on the United States which they said tossed about quite a bit, but there was music and dancing every night from 8:00 PM to 2:00 AM to two or three bands. "Some were beggars but better than nothing."

Full of Heineken beer, retire at 11:45. My bunkie has turned in earlier. Set clock back one-half hour.

4 - Dutch Liberation Day

Thursday, 5 May 1955 

My portrait of our Australian friend, Pat. Oil on canvas, 1958

Raw and choppy – sunny later. Australian girl next to Ruth at table. Loves U.S. Going to Paris where she hopes to find a job for the summer. She’s a nurse.

Today is Liberation Day for the Dutch. The Netherlands national anthem in the Palm Court this morning. Lots of Dutch folk songs. Old timers having a ball. Got some British money today but it’s impossible to fathom in pounds, shillings, and pence. Tried some sketches of musicians but failed miserably. Obviously, still very timid about sketching.

Dinner is late because of Liberation Day. Paper hats and favors. Much noise. Most everyone feeling pretty good but no one obnoxious. Young girls with different men as eliminations began. Palm Court much too crowded.

Old folks who ate at first sitting have taken all the seats. We sit in smoking lounge with our table mates. Cordials for four and two ginger ales for $1.10. What a sport I am on the high seas!

Good bull session. Pat, the Australian nurse; Jack from Seattle, on his second trip to Europe; William, the Irishman called “Paddy” by the Scots; a Belgian girl who says she is “Flemish,” not French. She also said I looked like an old German (I’m 26). No compliment coming from a Belgian.

William, who has been all over the Middle East and Europe, fought in Italy with the British army and probably marched up the Adriatic Coast through the Giambarba hometown. William is very articulate, doesn’t like what he calls the “irresponsibility of the American press” and their trying cases in the paper before they go to trial. He would rather live in London than anywhere else in the world. He also says one can get a job in England regardless of race or politics.

5 - Rough Seas

 Friday, 6 May 1955

Storm photo taken on a later North Atlantic crossing on the Bremen

Rough weather, rough seas, medium swells, just off Newfoundland. Ruth out on deck in the morning, came back to our cabin with her face badly wind burned. She says she looks like a very old baby. Cold and raw. The usual listening later to the dull three-piece orchestra, definitely not the Nat King Cole trio. There was a captive audience for the movie, The Glass Slipper. 

The ship is really pitching and rolling. Around midnight a drunken Dutch woman at the next table cracked her head on a bulkhead when she came to the bar to accuse someone, anyone, of stealing her $18 compact that her son had given her. 

There are no laughs with the stewards, who to a man are aggressive about hustling tips. They look like hoodlums, heavily into slick pompadour hair styles with what's known in Boston as a "duck's ass look."

We beat a hasty retreat and are awakened around 4 AM when everything slid off the dressing table and the chairs began dancing. Lots of crashing to be heard in nearby cabins followed by loud groans and barfing, then hilarity from someone when china is heard crashing to the deck. Gripsholm is only 12,000 tons and very vulnerable to high seas.

The Cunard Line slogan, “Getting There is Half the Fun” immediately comes to mind.

6 - Happy Birthday, Ruth

Saturday, 7 May 1955

Happy 23rd Birthday, Ruth!

The sports deck of the Ryndam when the weather cleared: Jack, from Seattle; Ruth, the birthday girl; Ria, from Holland; Don, from Scotland; Will, from London, via Ireland. 

The ship is pitching and rolling, perhaps 15 degrees, and it’s getting on our nerves. Precious few passengers show up for breakfast this morning. The tablecloths are wetted down, table rails are up, there are no saucers under the coffee cups, chairs are anchored to the deck, and hand lines strung up along passageways and public rooms.

Waves are breaking as high as the portholes on A deck and without letup. The portholes alternate between full of sky and then ocean. 

A rainbow breaks through the murky overcast in the afternoon on the port side. At dinner everyone sings Happy Birthday to Ruth.

We adjourn to the aft lounge for drinking with our new shipboard buddies: Scots, William, Jack, Pat, Ria, who is a Dutch police officer assigned to juvenile delinquents (I didn't know they had them) and two girls from Connecticut join us, one a political pundit who is unfortunately a bit choleric. The Scots and Will (aka Paddy) bristle at her attitude of “if anyone doesn’t like it in the USA, go home!”

We have the bar chill our send-off bottle of champagne from my former studio room mate Len and his wife but the bar steward makes a scene about not wanting to serve it, all the while opening it, as it’s against a company rule – he says – but a dollar tip convinces him to continue removing the cork. In the ship’s pecking order, bar stewards seem to be the most pompous, mess stewards more democratic and easier to please.

One serving the table behind us is always imitating American passengers. “Waiter, bring me water with my meals” seems to delight him no end.

7 - Calmer Seas

 Sunday, 8 May1955

Much calmer. Sun shining. We sleep past breakfast until lunch. We show up on the Sports Deck where the rest of our newly formed group is already ensconced and engaged in conversation.

After dinner there is more political discussion and talk of New Yorker cartoons (No, I have never sold the New Yorker but Ruth did sell them one of the little fillers they run at the bottom of the page) until the wee hours of the morning. 

Will has got a haircut and is wearing a new suit. He looks quite dapper. He confides that he is to be married at the end of summer in England. Well, that would make one want to leave for home, wouldn’t it?

The Scots boys are working as building inspectors in Newfoundland and expect to return after a spell in London. They say there is a lot of unemployment in Canada, many soup kitchens with long queues.

The Scots seem to avoid the many Cockneys on board. Don says nobody can get along with them because they don’t like anyone else. [These sketches were done at a later date.]

          

Don says that the people get better in Britain the further north one goes. Will allowed as how Londoners appear snooty but are quite friendly when approached by a stranger.

That sounds encouraging, but what’s all this about the Stone of Scones that the Scots boys say they want to get back from the English?

8 - Land ho!

 Monday, 9 May 1955

Entering the harbor: Cobh, formerly Queenstown

Missed breakfast again because of late bull session. Packed bags. Farewell dinner but the Dutch skipper failed to show at the Captain's Table. Some say he's been sick the whole trip. 

Our usual group afterwards, very congenial, addresses exchanges all around. Amazing how much some of them have travelled. Our Australian friend Pat has been to India, Ceylon and the Middle East, and we —in contrast—have been to Washington, D.C., Quebec and Nova Scotia.

9 - Cobh to Dublin

Tuesday, 10 May 1955

Well, we finally made it to breakfast. Tipped our dining room steward who pointed out to us that N.A.S.M. (the Holland-America Line in Dutch) means “Nice Americans Spend Money.” The cabin steward was much more gracious. He even smiled. Lots of farewells from all. We could see the Irish coast, everyone on deck. Ireland looks so incredibly green, with accents of orange heather. 

Entering the harbor, Cobh

We see a white and black lighthouse and old British fort as we enter the mouth of Cobh Harbor. A harbor pilot comes out on a tug, about an hour later a tender shows up with large American Express official aboard. We finally walk a gangplank to the deck of the tender where lots of guys in cruddy clothes are piling up luggage.

From the deck of the lighter taking us ashore

There’s much waving from the Ryndam. Can’t recognize anyone. Legendary Irish wit is displayed by the American Express official who tells two helpless American ladies awaiting their turn at customs that he is “next to the bishop” in importance. We await our turn at the customs shed at the dock. One tourist complains that he was first in line, and is then sent to the end of the line. Everyone is otherwise very helpful. We buy train tickets to Dublin. Took a Toonerville Trolley after a walk through Cobh. The first impression was that it was so quiet, life goes easy, clean babies, dirty little kids. We have tea at a smelly old pastry shop. Behind it is a flourishing flower garden. Houses along the waterfront in Cobh are all different colors: pink, yellow, orange, gray, white. It’s a beautiful sunny day and Ruth remarks how exciting it is to be in Ireland: tiny British cars driving down lanes of hedgerows is like all the English movies we’ve seen rolled into one. Primroses in bloom among the flowers everywhere. Along the railroad to Cork we see apple blossoms beginning to fade, lovingly cared for grounds and small greenhouses. Horses and cows everywhere. We pass marshes and then inlets which lead to the sea, cottages with white stucco walls. At five we arrive in Cork, wait an hour for our train to Dublin. The first class compartment has high cushioned seats with trays attached to the backs. There are Americans on board, so noisy compared to the the Irish who speak quietly and mind their own business. This is our first taste of loud Americans abroad. The train lurches along. Through the large windows we see thatched roof cottages and kids milking cows. We have a good mixed grille dinner for 5 shillings and thruppence, as they say. That's US$ 1.68 for both of us. We arrive Dublin at 9 PM. A large, heavy lady with a cane tells us to go to Wynne’s Hotel. We’re herded with a lady visitor into a 1946 Mercury jam-packed with luggage. Wynne’s is an old-fashioned hotel with dark cavernous rooms. Little boys and little girls in uniforms scurry about. A chambermaid dressed like a nurse greets us with a hot-water bottle. It proves necessary in a cold bed. Click on photos to enlarge.

First impressions

10 - Dublin

Wednesday, 11 May 1955

Hearty breakfast of grapefruit, eggs, sausage, bacon, toast and coffee in Wynne’s dining room. Ruth says excellent, loves the silver tableware and the Blue Willow china. We walk up to the Hotel Gresham, rated the best in Dublin, to see our illustrator friend B. She’s not in, so we stop by the nearby Irish Tourist Association, then to Royal Auto Club to get a license to drive in Ireland. 

Our rented 1955 Ford Anglia

Selected a Ford Anglia from Murray’s Car-Hire and the congenial owner had us driven over to Fogra Failte where we spent a good deal of time with with a very helpful Mr. Sheehy. He had a hundred stories and suggestions about where to travel in Ireland. Most of the stories had to do with “the troubles” of the 1920s, when the Hotel Gresham was blown up and burned to the ground and all that remained was its mailbox.

Ruth notes that we had a lovely walk down O’Connell Street where many shops were tended by well turned-out pretty girls and that I was handsome in my new tweed cap [so that’s where it came from]. She thought it was beginning to look more like Europe on this sunny day, though it could be New Brunswick, Canada, except for the grungy few in tatters and rubber Wellingtons. “So poor!” she exclaimed. She loved the flowers: “lavish garden growth everywhere, hanging baskets of moss and geraniums, beds of pink tulips and rust-orange primroses, window boxes and every available flower pot jammed with a dozen or more varieties, a little old lady on a bus carrying a basket with a tiny bouquet of pansies and primroses; palm trees in some dooryards.” (Click on photos to enlarge.) The images I remember were of harridens hawking tabloids and selling bananas from wooden crates on prams, hundreds of bicycles whose riders tucked their pants cuffs into grimy socks. Very attractive young women and young, good-looking and unarmed cops, dirty handwoven tweeds, soft conversations, green double-deck buses, one with Donnybrook as its destination. The Georgian architecture is stunning, everyone is very polite, signs read “Buy Irish.” We meet up with B and eat at Jammet’s, a highly recommended restaurant. We had tornedos and a curry, a bottle of Bordeaux rouge, coffee and Irish Mist. The cost was four Irish pounds. It looked as if someone had punched a hole in the wall at the end of our table. The toilet was cold and dirty. If this was indeed the best restaurant in Dublin, what must the others be like? 

 Scanned directly from my notes. The drawings look less timid which is a good sign, I guess.