If Wishes Were Horses
The Carlow Nationalist, October 2010
At Dublin’s Heuston station the last passenger jumped aboard just as the train was about to leave. Young, athletic, early twenties and dressed precisely in black. He sat in the seat across the aisle from me; carefully unbuttoned and folded his jacket; removed an iPod from his leather shoulder bag before popping two pea-sized earphones in his ears. He slouched back into his seat and started to dance.
When I say he started to dance I mean his hands started to dance. That’s right his hands. On the table in front of where he sat his two long-fingered hands replicated the movements of feet dancing a jig. His eyes were closed and his mind was somewhere else beyond the darkening countryside whizzing past outside the window. I have to admit that I was amazed; at first by the peculiarity of the situation and then, as I watched his elaborately delicate movements, by the aesthetics of his digital friskiness. He was most definitely a dancer I deduced.
After some time he opened his eyes and began to gather his belongings. I couldn’t resist it, “excuse me, I’m curious, but are you a dancer by any chance?” The question still sounds as foolish now as it did then. He looked at me like a dog at a balled-up hedgehog. I wiggled my hands imitating his movements. The dancer raised his hands to his mouth in what appeared to be feigned shock. “Oh my God, was I doing that again?” he hissed. I nodded. The train began to slow, “Newbridge,” the conductor announced. “Newbridge next stop. Next stop Newbridge”. The young man leaned in as if to divulge a secret of great import. “I am a dancer,” he whispered, “but when I’m not dancing I feel lost.” It was a big admission. “I’m always practising my moves even when I’m sitting down. It drives my mother MAD! I’m so sorry, I hope I didn’t bother you.”
The train slowed into a phosphorous yellow station and the young man disembarked. From outside came the sound of muffled greetings, the wheels of a suitcase etched along the damp platform and the tinny barking of a dog excited to see its master.
But I knew how the young man had felt. I knew exactly how he felt.
When a person is obsessed – dancing in this young man’s case, travel in mine – the subject becomes a preoccupation at the strangest of times. Lately I haven’t been traveling as much as I could wish for – not at all in fact – and I have found myself attempting to get ‘my fix of travel’ in any way possible. But this morning, just after breakfast, things took a turn for the worst. I absentmindedly picked up a copy of the ‘Lonely Planet’ guide to Eastern Europe and flicked idly through it hefty bulk. Before I knew what was happening I was playing a game of ‘open a page a random and see where I find myself.’ Harmless eh? But not so. At least not when you start compiling these fortuitous lucky-dips into a list of ‘must visit’ future destinations. Being a fair player of the game I allowed myself only five destinations; if I had visited any destination in the past I would jolly well just have to go there again. Those, I’m afraid, are the rules of the game.
And so I can now reveal my ‘bucket list’, if you like, of what lies ahead for me.
First off it appears I will return to my beloved Croatia and the island of Krk. I have in the past seen it from the mainland, jutting from the sea like a great, grey whale. Its monolithic mound of bare Karst, featureless, but somehow appealing. Why not? I said aloud, after all it is Croatia’s largest island and what better reason do I need. Next I delved towards the back of the book, eyes shut tightly. And the winner is:Damn! Budva. I only visited this Montenegran seaside haven in recent weeks. Don’t get me wrong, Budva is a wonderful place; full of long beaches, great entertainment and sapphire blue seas. But for a book with 943 pages I at least imagined I would find some new hunting grounds. But so be it, Budva it will be.
With only three choices left I had to try and imprint the book with my desires. I opened it towards the centre this time. Poland and the town of Wroclaw (pronounced Vrots-wahf if memory serves me). I have never been to Wroclaw but a cursory glance at the page revealed I would be enthralled by ten churches and cathedrals, a military museum, the national museum and a ethnographical museum (always handy when it’s raining). At least it’s new territory I thought and delved once more towards my oracle. As I opened the page I wasn’t surprised for some reason, I knew it was there waiting for me: Moscow. A place I had, in the distant past, lived for several years. Oh God! I groaned and then remembered that Ireland will play Russia at football in the hallowed grounds of Luzhniki Stadium in the coming year. Ha! I smiled. And I said I didn’t want to go, well now I have to. So there!
For my last pick I hoped for something a little more exotic. I flicked the pages, trying to pick up a ‘vibration’. Taking my time I felt like a gambler in Las Vegas. Bucharest. Romania’s capital and a city I’ve somehow managed to avoid over the years. I read the first line: Forget Prague, forget Budapest – Bucharest is where explorers are heading. This is Eastern Europe’s secret... That was all I needed – a secret for explorers.
I’m
not sure if I will make it to all these places in the future. I will certainly
try. But just like the dancer, even when he’s not dancing, at least his feet
are moving – and so I hope will mine.