WebbAbroad

Some Spice of Life with Paddy Ice

I’d dragged myself out of the Huis the night I met you, on account of your ex-girlfriend and her raving reviews. Besides, the Liverpool game was on, and I owed it to another friend to sit through some soccer at Stapleton’s. That Irish pub was warm that night, clashing with the cold winds of mid-February outside. The bar was packed tightly with Liverpool-loving Leuvenites with an affinity for Kilkenny ale. My glasses grew foggy when I waltzed in to meet my friend and Liverpool fan.

When I was done wiping the residue away, I looked up to see you walk in with your ex, my quickly-made close friend Norah. You had a flamboyant soccer scarf wrapped loosely around your shoulders, and it swayed slightly back and forth as you worked your way towards the bar, strands of red and black brushing past strangers. An Arsenal fan, from what I was told. Confusion creased your brow — there was nowhere easily found to stand and watch the game projected behind you.

I made a motion, hand hovering above the closely-packed crowd, calling you both over to where I stood away from the rest of the group. You both pushed past the crowd to meet me.

“Pat,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard good things.” You looked to Norah, and I realized I’d been mistaken.

“Should I call you Paddy?” I’d heard that was perhaps a preferred alternative, short for Paddy Ice, the result of some insider mythos my mind can simply never conjure up correctly. A soccer player, maybe. I didn’t dare try it as a first moniker, instead feeling out your comfort level.

You gave me the affirmative, and I started on the small talk: the where, the why, trying to figure out what kind of guy you were. I noted a soft smile and a sort of twinkle in your eyes — something kind and comforting. You’d come from a study abroad in London, from actual football pitches, settling instead for a projector of petite proportions in this small city of Leuven just to see your friend. Not a line of stress crossed your forehead; you were content being where you were. That first told me what kind of guy you were.

I’d struggled in Leuven to find the right type of guys to associate with — the people who know how to cut themselves off after a night out, who could hold a conversation even in its most boring moments, who could be content on a more quiet style of day rather than waiting for the next spike of adrenaline. Maybe that’s who you were, I was thinking when we first chatted.

The two of us had nothing in common, mind you. You had a build typical of a guy with a false idea of masculinity. You stood a few inches taller than me, with broader shoulders and a more laid-back demeanor compared to my darting eyes and rapid remarks on just about anything I could think of. Still, I thought us oddly similar in a way, content in the moment despite the obvious gap in our interests. Our babbling was broken off by a wave of pained expression from the crowd, and we realized we ought to indulge in a drink. We split off, and I joined the rest of our group on the other side of the pub.

After a quick conversation with my friend Cece in a cloistered corner of the pub, I tried to get to know three new guys who had joined us and, while they were great, I couldn’t help but feel my voice drowned out. None of us listened to each other, not fully, not with interest. It killed my spirit, and the stuffiness of the room felt more suffocating than it had before. I zoned out, lost in thought, watching the crowd react to the breakaways, missed shots, and close saves. And then you came and sat down on the stool next to me, as I was staring off into space, thinking once again how difficult it was to connect sometimes, even superficially. I like to think you saw that, whether I had some look on my face or just seemed out of it. A stranger, yourself, took care to note that, and made an effort to organize a conversation at the table that interested everyone.

When I left that night, Norah and I talked about you. She joked that I was more interested in you than she had been the entire time you two had dated. We swapped Instagrams, you and I, and had some silent agreement to keep in touch. I saw you down the line on television, cheering for your team, draped in red and black again. You read my blog, and took the time to comment on my writing style. We’ve become two strangers with a faint connection, keeping kindness alive.

At the end of the day, Paddy, I won’t know you. We’re both across the pond for a semester, and a Channel away. But know you’ve become a folk tale here. I hear you’ve played cornhole with Jerome Powell, that you were raised in luxury, that you weren’t always the Paddy I met one night in Leuven. I’ve heard it took great work to learn to listen, to learn to care, but that you’ve always had that spark of something special in you.

So thanks, Paddy Ice, for making my night. You proved I’ll find my kind of strangers everywhere I go if I look hard enough.

Sincerely,