The Memory of a Bridge

The rolling hills of San Francisco make driving a nuisance, or a thrill if the ubiquitous threat of a fender-bender is your idea of fun.  With my trunk pointed downhill at a red light, I keep my left foot on the brake and accelerate simultaneously so my bulky car won’t smash the one behind me.  I am heading toward a picturesque angle of the Golden Gate Bridge.  Once I saw the red, symmetrical architecture from Fort Baker I realized the view on the opposite side of the bay wouldn’t change much, but I went to Presidio anyways. 

I get out of the car with Erin, and we stare at the bridge.  She takes photos on her camera while I do my best with my iPhone.  I don’t even know why the Golden Gate Bridge is famous, and I’m not even that fascinated by impressive feats of modern civil engineering.  But here I am. 

This is another one of those checked-off items I can use to compare my wanderings to other travelers.  Traveling to iconic destinations has more to do than bragging rights alone.  There may be an innate desire for each individual to build his own empire:  to roam from his doorstep and stake claim to a faraway land, however minuscule that claim may be.  We’ve come from chimpanzees who drive away neighboring communities for control of resources like nuts or fruit-bearing trees.  Dictators and imperialists have invaded other countries to expand the nation’s boundaries, and now the average person explores the previously-explored not for resources or political prestige but for knowledge, self-worth, and memory.

             

Objectively, the bridge is worth little more to me than a pretty picture.  Seeing the bridge is symbolic, instead, because of I can measure the passage of time from a memory that stands out.  The end of a country and the beginning of the Pacific Ocean is a way to mark progress for someone who was born in the east. I can begin sentences with:  “Ever since I returned from the West…”  And this could prove useful.  At the same time, however, merely laying eyes on this structure doesn’t qualify me for anything.  For some, the bridge represents a commute for which a driver has to pay a toll.  I never got a bill.

After we have taken all the pictures we deem necessary, Erin and I retreat from the windy outcroppings and meet up with a family friend who happens to be an interior decorator, the perfect tour guide for one of the most expensive cities in America.  During a tour of the city, he tells us that if you think driving up these hills is a difficult task, then we should try pushing a refrigerator on a dolly up these steep slopes.  I decide that it’s not only the outrageous rent that is preventing me from moving here. 

The decorator is staying at a client’s apartment for the time being, and he make our way there.  We turn past one of those gas stations you can tell by looking at that they don’t have a bathroom, or if they do you have to ask for a key and walk behind the store to find it.  Construction rages in a narrow alleyway littered with questionable looking apartments with dumpy facades.  The occasional porch light next to a grand door suggests what lies behind is a different world from the empty garbage cans and stray cats that live in the street. We pull into a garage that is large enough to fit two Range Rovers with two inches of space remaining.

The apartment is immaculate and excessive.  There are fuzzy sofas and statement pieces that serve no purpose other than warranting questions such as:  “What’s this thing for?” and nothing more.  The stairs look as though they are floating.  The walls in the bedrooms are full of pictures that belong in medium-sized city art museums.

  

Altogether, the space is roughly the same size as the two-and-a-half bedroom house I rented in Pittsburgh.  The Pittsburgh house cost $1,200 per month for three people, one of whom volunteered to live in a space more suitable to be a closet.  That was the nicest house on the block in a sketchy neighborhood where occasional gunshots weren't strangers.  

The San Francisco apartment in which I currently stand has those same qualifications but is worth over a million dollars.  If I had a million dollars, I don’t know how I would spend it exactly, but I wouldn’t live near one of those gas stations that people only stop at reluctantly because they’ve run out of gas.

Music from a decade in which I wasn’t yet alive is playing from speakers that I cannot locate.  They are probably built into the walls, and I don’t have the WiFi password to shut off the music.  I manage to find a volume knob and mute the incessant thumping.  I pour a glass of faucet water and sit on the bar stool and consider limitations I would impose when buying furniture.  The dining room table looks more artistic than functional.  I would hesitate to eat my cereal there in the morning in case I spilled any milk.  I feel uncomfortable surrounded by such unnecessary wealth and yearn for the warmth of my wood-burning stove inside the cabin in Wyoming.

Finally, we leave and head toward AT&T Park.  I am taking Erin to her first baseball game:  the San Francisco Giants against the Cincinnati Reds.  The match-up has extra sentimental value because the Reds and Erin are from the same city.  I could not have planned for a better coincidence.  The night before I bought six dollar tickets on StubHub, but the next day we negate that frugality with a ten dollar cup of foamy beer and a seven dollar soft pretzel.  We climb endless stairs to the nosebleeds where we have a view of the bay blackened by night and a roof to keep us out of the cold summer rain.  The game below is background noise.  I don’t remember who won the game, but I remember the company.