The archetype of the ancient storytelling Irishman surfaced again at the Translink bus station in Belfast on Sunday afternoon. He perched on the line of curved plastic chairs by the sliding door to gates 14-17, waiting for a subject, anyone. His face was craggy but soft like room-temperature cream cheese; the rough sandpaper tongue of time left its mark on his cheeks and lips. His once-white hair was clumped into twisted bunches; the imprint of his wool cap formed a tunnel around his skull. He slumped in a plaid flannel shirt and tatty khakis. His feet were planted on the dusty tile in flaking work boots.

“Where ya goin’?” he asked a handsome young man of color, maybe African-American, dressed in shades of navy. They discussed the Belfast sights and the crappy tea quality at the restaurant across the aisle. When the young man caught his bus, the old man turned his attention to the raucous toddlers crawling under the seats, screeching, evading their father.

“What ya two doin’ down there?” he asked, and the stories rolled around again.