Somewhere between these two photos
I haven’t ventured yet to tell the story here of what happened somewhere between these photos, late January of this year in Dublin. But tonight, as I watch the credits roll following a night in, watching Lost in Translation, I was inspired.
I went to Dublin with my friend Anuj for a party weekend with some of his SF friends. After a very full day of sightseeing with him and two crazy nights out with the massive California crew+co, I had an extra day left all to myself - because I didn’t have work on Monday like the rest of them. I woke up early, somehow having beat a hangover with over-hydration the night before. Anuj and I went out for a goodbye brunch before his flight. Then, bundled up in my rainproof wear, I hit the streets solo, eventually joining a free walking tour of the northern part of the city, which we hadn’t had a chance to explore yet that weekend. After the walk, I had prepared to join the same group later for a pub tour, confirming the bar on their route where I’d meet them later (as I wanted to fit in time to see the Jamieson distillery). I showed up at the bar, had a craft beer that the guide had recommended and waited at the bar - to no avail. The group never showed up and so I was left to my own accord - more fortunately for me, little did I know.
I walked into Temple Bar, following the sounds of Irish music from TradFest that was happening that weekend, and after finding a suitable spot, Guinness in hand, proceeded to chat up a few people at the shared table as the live music played. We danced a bit, shared stories, and they were off to catch a ferry. Onwards, Vish.
After some research, I made my way into a tried-and-true hole-in-the-wall for a proper Irish stew and soda bread for dinner. I walked in and sat at a bar-like table at the front of the quaint little restaurant, excited to order. Unbeknownst to me, there is more than one Irish stew. So I looked around for help. To my left: A young girl, enthralled in a book. To my right: A middle-aged man hypnotized by his smartphone screen. I decided he was more deserving of an interruption.
After he recommended the stew he was eating and I ordered, we got to talking. (Apparently, I was more interesting than his Twitter feed. I, on the other hand, was already well-practiced in the art of chatting up strangers in Dublin.) Our conversation was smooth, entertaining, familiar in some way even, as though we’d been well acquainted with talking to one another. Funnily enough, I can’t even recall his name anymore; it was something obscure and rare, feminine even, I think, but I won’t venture to even lie that it’s at the tip of my tongue.
We moved from topic to topic steadily, with long stops to unfold what was deeper under the headings of “a/s/l/” etc., but without losing momentum. He lived in Amsterdam but was originally from London (a jumping off point for our conversation). He knew my neighbourhood well having lived in nearby Hampstead for many years, and later (i.e. over the next five hours) divulged that he was working in TV research/advertising, was there for a conference, a fan of U2 and Jethro Tull, 43, Jewish (less religious than he was brought up to be), married, and many other things I cannot recall in detail anymore. Some things survived in my memory, perhaps because we chatted about them in the quieter bars of the four or five that we went to that evening, as we sampled different drinks, bands, and vibes.
He gave me career advice. We talked about what makes a good marriage - and a good whiskey (while doing tasters at another bar). We spoke of old age and whether youth ever stops. We compared lessons from failed relationships. He made no passes at me, though I felt in some ways we were intimate in our gestures, the way we pushed chairs, opened doors, carried glasses; the way he helped me with my coat. At no point could I say we were flirting, even as we proceeded to get drunker and drunker. Though I can’t say there was no attraction. The intrigue of our age difference and relationship status, however, were there, keeping us in our tracks and the feeling predominantly plutonic.
It drew close to 2:30am, the rain had ceased and we decided to walk back to our separate abodes, which happened to be in the same direction. His was closer, and after many jokes about where I would squat to pee by the river on the way there, he offered his hotel bathroom as a solution. As I slid the door closed, he called from the bedroom, “Do you want a drink?”
I still don’t believe it meant what many girls in that situation would not be mistaken to think. But I politely said no and took a bottle of water instead (an echoing note to myself: overhydrate!)
I checked Google and saw my place was 2 kilometres away. He offered to walk me part-way as it was quite late and the area was turning desolate (see my street, upon arrival home, pictured right). I agreed, and so we continued on, ten minutes, still carrying on in the flowing and enjoyable conversation that had sustained during the evening. We landed at a bridge and in silent agreement knew this was the spot. We stopped, and I, in my Vish-way, offered to exchange contact details. “In case you’re ever in London.”
To my surprise, he said no.
I can’t say I wasn’t disappointed, but the emotion instantly passed as some kind of higher feeling came over me. This night somehow was now about to really solidify itself as exactly what it had been all night - now made limitless and infinite, with no chance of alteration, transformation, addition, or subtraction by some later run-in, vague international friendship, or failed attempt at a future meeting. It was what it had been. And we were whatever it was that we were: Two lone travellers who peeled open, showed kindness, trust, honesty, and care, without obligation or an asking of something in return, not then, at any point that evening, and not now, or ever. We embraced for a hug in the dark night, smiled as we said our goodnight and turned. I didn’t look back as I made my way down the slope of the bridge and into the ghostly darkness of east Dublin.
What I took away from this, since, has been an utmost full feeling of having connected with another person at a new level, both shallow and deep, as it was fine and perfect to have our connection be confined to a single evening. And nothing more.
And isn’t that beautiful? Nothing more. That feeling is what I would like to introduce more into my life. Even with those around me whom I come to expect more from, with whom a future, we plan, to be more than just a possibility.
The future is not real. All we have is now (no new words of wisdom from me here, I know). But that is enough. Nothing more.
And when you feel that in your life, that there’s room for nothing more..you feel very full. Very fulfilled.
fulfilled (adj.) Old English fullfyllan, "make full; take the place of (something),“ from full (adj.), (Old English full “containing all that can be received; with a sense of “completion.”) From c. 1300 as “complete, finish” Modern English combinations with full tend to have it at the end of the word (as -ful), but in Old English it was more common at the start.
So let’s start with that, start with what is real, and not let Now be an afterthought.
jasonsanders liked this
life---actually posted this