The women in the Dublin airport wear sweatpants and ponytails. Faces clean. I understand this better than the red stilettos and short skirts in New York, New Jersey. She has sunburnt hair and a soft accent. I gladly agree to watch her bag because I must owe 1,000 strangers the pay-it-forward kindness I have received in Ireland. A thousand friendly hellos and two dozen kind winks.
At the outside cafe in Galway, I saved her a seat next to me while she went inside to get coffee. When we emptied our cups, tired our tongues, divulged abridged autobiographies, she went back inside and paid for next morning’s coffee and scones for Brother and I. A hug did not express enough gratitude for kindness, for coffee and scones. For the reminder that the world is not NYC, where strangers cautiously eye one another, where stilettos, short skirts, and mascara wait for flights without a glance towards the older woman who needs a seat in the terminal. I threw my arms around her in gratitude. Thank you so much, kind Ireland.
