On Saturday I was wandering through Dublin, and somehow I got myself turned around. I asked a stationmaster how to get to Trinity College, and he sent me in the general direction of a bus stop down the street.
When I got to what looked like the right location, I asked a portly and somewhat elderly gentleman whether this was the right place to catch the bus to Trinity College. He told me that the proper place was right across the street, but that I shouldn’t take the bus.
“Why not?” I asked.
“There’s no point in taking the bus,” he said, “when it’s near enough to walk.”
It was a nice day, perfect for a little walk, so I asked: “OK, how do I walk to Trinity College?”
Then the man smiled, a big broad happy Irish smile, and I can swear I saw his eyes twinkle. “With your feet, of course.”
I laughed, not so much at the joke as at his perfect delivery. Then he pointed me in the proper direction, and sent me on my way.
The next day I took a flight back to Paris. As I took the RER B to Paris Nord, and then the M2 to Villiers, I was struck by all the tense and somber faces. Everyone looked dour, wrapped up in their own private world.
Paris is incredibly beautiful, I thought to myself, but nobody here is going to make a joke like the one that guy told in Dublin.
And right there, I thought to myself, is the difference between Dublin and Paris.