Dublin Encounters: Episode 1

As an American pedestrian in Ireland, I never could remember which way to look for traffic. If I was a passenger in a car, I didn't have any trouble remembering which side of the road I was on and where oncoming traffic would be. But put me on my feet, and it was, "Why is there suddenly a car right where I'm about to walk?"

Crossing Drumcondra, you had to be careful. My husband had been there long enough that he had more confidence. Whereas I didn't mind taking my time waiting for the pedestrian light to see me safely across. Then I would stop and wait for a bus to take me further into the city. While waiting, I would admire the tree-lined sidewalks leading north, or wonder why Quinn's on the other side of the street was advertising American beer. Often I could people watch, and always I could enjoy the sunshine.

Sunshine in Ireland is a rarity, and I was lucky to be there in the sunniest and perhaps warmest weeks of the year. It was June, and the sky was a brilliant blue with sparkling white puffy clouds. I was going into town to see something of great import. There was the Book of Kells to study, or perhaps St. Stepehen's Green to enjoy the sunshine with poets and dreamers. Maybe I would also eat some fish and chips at Beshoff's.

There was a bus approaching, and I stuck out my arm at a 45-degree angle to the road. The bus slowed, stopped. I stepped on, scanned my bus pass, and decided to stay on the lower level as there were only a few other passengers. I sat down a couple rows behind a thin, silver-haired old man in a black blazer and blue shirt. He hadn't looked at me as I passed, but he had pleasant wrinkles in his cheeks and at the corners of his eyes. He was holding on to the seat in front of him, as if he might start a conversation with the occupants across the aisle. The bus continued down the road, and I turned my eyes to the other occupants.

They looked like a father and daughter. She looked about six or seven years old, and she kept pointing at things out the window and chattering. The old man said something cheerful to the pair, and the girl smiled at him. The father responded with something friendly and respectful. A small conversation ensued, and I enjoyed listening to their voices, though I didn't hear the words. At the next stop, the father and daughter stood up to go, and they said goodbyes to the old man. As they hopped off the bus, the old man cried a farewell at them and sat back, letting go of the seat in front of him.

A couple teenage boys in athletic wear boarded the bus and clambered upstairs. The old man turned his head toward the window and started to whistle as the bus resumed its course further into the heart of Dublin. The whistle was high and clear, but his sweet vibrato added a gentleness that captivated me. His tune was nothing I was familiar with. The more he whistled, the more I guessed that his tune was in fact nothing in particular. It went wherever he willed it.

Soon I was unaware of where we were. My eyes blurred as my memory flashed through twenty years of that very same whistle. Too soon, the bus slowed again, and the old man stopped whistling and hesitantly stood up. I wiped my eyes and saw the bustle of O'Connell street outside. I jumped out of my seat, and followed the old man out of the bus. Only when we were on the pavement did I notice his long, thin cane. He had started to whistle again, and was tapping the ground around him with his cane. My heart ached as I watched him turn toward the expanse of O'Connell street. It was filled with buses and cars and a median that also served as a pedestrian thoroughfare. There were merchants selling flowers to tourists near the Spire, and further down toward the Liffey sat Daniel O'Connell himself with tourists and Dubliners alike.

My old man didn't even hesitate as he stepped forward to cross the mighty O'Connell, his cane tapping along. He walked into the street just barely after the last wave of traffic, as if they hadn't been there. I watched him safely make it to the pedestrian median. I hadn't meant to cross O'Connell there, but I found myself following. Just as I reached the median, the old man was about to step into the thick traffic on the other side. I was poised to run, I thought I could feel my heart stop. Just as the man learned forward to step off the median into the stream of cars, a younger man pulled his arm back and steadied him on the median. Staying back, I watched the young man wait with the old as the traffic cleared. They exchanged words as the young escorted the old across the rest of the street. I saw them shake hands, and I watched the young man watching the old man walk down O'Connell street. I turned my eyes to the old man, and in my mind I could hear him whistling again, drowning out the noise of the busy street. He turned a corner and was gone. 

The traffic of O'Connell street flowed this way and that. When I decided which side I wanted to be on, I looked in the proper direction for oncoming traffic before crossing. I was going into town to see something of great import. I couldn't remember what it was.