The first Irishman I met made me cry

Gosh, it must be almost twenty years ago now.

My sister and I were travelling to Moscow from Mumbai; almost-adult fledglings in the departures hall at the airport waiting for a delayed flight, we were leaving our Indian family home for our Russian student one with our heads full of tales of caution about the crooked ways of strangers and the dangers of the wide world.

He was flying on from Moscow to Dublin; a small, quick person, carrying a sort of banjo and talking to all and sundry. He was inquisitive (nosey! I thought) and chatty (suspicious! I thought) and I tried to ignore him politely.

Then he started playing and singing songs of his home and we were captured in a sad and sweet trance. I can’t remember a word nor a tune, but I remember how I felt that day, when the first Irishman I met made me cry.

Funny how the thought of him just popped into my head now.

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