I was on the back of Ronan's bike, flying along yet another seemingly nameless street in the heart of Dublin. I'm sure somewhere there was a map that would tell me the names of the avenues were weaving through, but to me they were just a collection of histories and half-remembered stories. I'd been learning my way around the city for months now, and most of what I'd been taught had to do with what pub used to be on which corner and where Sean or Dennis or whoever used to live. At first I was riddled with anxiety over my seeming inability to learn the local geography, but by that night I'd come to accept the truth of it - the way to learn a city is to live in a city. The names of the streets don't matter so much as the memories you make upon them. For now I had to do with Ronan's stories about where he grew up and who he knew. I was happy knowing that someday I'd have my own stories. Someday, I'd be able to tell my own child about how I'd come to the city and why I'd made it my home. The great irony is that we were lost.
