I was walking down the street, almost crossing O’Connell Bridge over the cold River Liffey. My intention was going shopping at Grafton’s many options, as we were about one week before Christmas. The streets were packed with people from all places, shopping like crazy. I was amazed by the number of redheads of all sizes, forms and ages, walking up and down the busy walkways and it felt like paradise to me.
A young man in his early twenties looked distressed when I passed by him and was crossing the N1 at Nassau Street, right after Trinity. He stopped me and asked if I knew where he could take the bus to Dorset College. I excused myself saying I did not know. He asked another passer-by and then another one, but none of them knew. The young man was in despair and very agitated. I commented that the city was too full of tourists and it was natural that most of us would not know it. He burst out with a high pitched voice.
- I’m not a tourist!
I laughed at his obvious and sudden distress, but tried to keep it up and calmly responded.
- But we are! And lots of these people are too.
He was almost giving up, but fortunately, there was a dark haired man coming to our direction and he had the right information. The younger man felt relieved and stayed by the Bus Stop while I continued my way, laughing inside. At least he was respectful and did not swear at anyone.
Tall and strong, the young man had a natural auburn beard covering his pale, freckled face and his rosy cheeks. His hair was a lighter shade of ginger, cut very shortly, except on top of his head. The overall look was very pleasant for a young man like that.
I walked away, still laughing inside about what had just happened and went back on my way to Grafton Street.
***
Later that afternoon, when I was coming back, holding shopping bags in both hands, my mind was absolutely distracted and my feet were sore. In spite of being soon after 5 pm only, the sensation was it was already late in the evening. If it were not for the many Christmas lights all around, the place would be as dark as the feathers of a crow.
I crossed the bridge on my way back to the hotel I was staying in, not far away from the Garden of Remembrance. Right where the Spire was erected, I decided to turn to Henry Street, when I saw the small street market and the hats and scarves they were selling at reasonable prices. I always liked a good bargain and I decided I needed a new and trendier hat.
I found a nice hat, plaided of dark green, grey and light brown, very discreet and which could be used with almost any piece of garment. Most important of all, it’d keep my head warm. I was happy. For what’s worth, I felt my purchase was a good one.
I’m not used to receiving gifts, so I buy my own when I need something. Hat on head, bags in my both hands, I walked back, all happy and light. The streets were still busy and the wind was blowing fiercely from the riverside when I walked back through Henry Street. I bent my head and stepped firmly on the large brick walkway.
I thought to myself: what a nice place to fall in love with…
My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a loud crashing noise and a very strange sensation. I heard a metallic clatter and that was followed by a dizziness and the feeling I could not get hold of my grasp and my balance. The message sent to my brain that I was falling down to the ground. I felt a pain on my right leg and saw the packages I was holding all scattered around on the brownish pavement.
I was caught in surprise. I looked around and found out there was a bicycle on the ground with its wheels still turning. Looking at me with his big green eyes, a man, dressed in competition gear, was looking as startled as I was. He seemed to be not just scared by what had just happened: he was unquestionably worried.
- Are you well?
He smiled. He was probably not expecting I was concerned about him, when I was the one who was just hit hard by his bicycle.
- Are you?
- I think so.
I looked at myself, then around. Some people were trying to help picking up the bags and packages scattered all over the place. I thanked those kind walkers-by and tried to get up, but my right leg failed to keep me standing up.
He was just too quick to hold my arm.
- Try to stand now. Don’t hit it hard. Just go light and slow.
I did what he said. The pain was bearable. I had a scratched knee and my jeans were ripped. Very fashionable, I thought. I told him I was OK. He would take me to emergency, but I refused and thanked for his concern. I just wanted to go back to my hotel, have a good hot shower and a little rest. He was not completely happy, but agreed and helped me out.
He lifted his bike from the pavement. It was ok: just a few scratches on the painting.
He was OK: just a few scratches on his left leg.
I was OK, in spite of some scuffs on my leg, a painful scratched knee and a ripped pair of jeans.
He insisted to follow me up to the hotel, helping me out with the bags, just to be sure I was really OK. How nice on him...
As soon as we got close to the reception desk, the clerk asked me if I needed help, as he saw me walking a bit limp and being helped by that stranger. He was quick to ask if there was a nurse or doctor at hand to check if my leg needed any assistance.
Half an hour later, after a quick meeting with the doctor in the emergency room, I was assured it was nothing more serious than a few scratches and I was free to go back to my room with my wound all cleaned and covered with a layer of ointment.
To my surprise he was still sitting by the reception, holding his helmet in his hands. He seemed to be patiently waiting for something. I could guess his mind was elsewhere, however. I watched him from a certain distance for a little while, then walked towards him. For the first time I noticed the colour of his hair, which I did not guess before from his well shaved and pale face.
He raised his head and looked at me. For a strange reason I had a ginger alert: I felt butterflies in my stomach and I blushed immediately.
- Are you OK?
- Yes. It was really just a few scratches. Nothing serious… I promise.
- I’m really sorry.
- Don’t be. It was an accident. I should have been more careful…
- Me too.
I smiled. He grinned.
- I’m Ryan. Nice to meet you…
‘How typical,’ thought I. He couldn’t have a more common name in Ireland…
***
When I went down to the hall the morning after, so to walk off and have my breakfast at a street Café instead of the hotel, I heard someone calling me by the name. I just stopped by the revolving door and turned around, in complete surprise.
I was not expecting for anything like that.
***
