It became clear what the mission for the day would be sometime after the fog of the other night’s drinks lifted and just before I had gobbled down the last foul forkful of gooey greasy goodness at the Scorpion. I had been fighting a creeping sadness all weekend, perhaps “nursing it” would be a more appropriate description. This sadness kind of blossomed early Monday morning after waking up groggy [again]; heading off to Jen’s to feed the cats… creeping sadness, suckled on booze and left unchecked by self imposed immobility for the entire long weekend. The mission was indeed obvious.
I had blown an opportunity to walk the sun the day before. Spent that day cooking glop and trying to convince myself I’d be more productive at some later point in the day. It snowed later that night, and today I was faced with a total gray bleakness and a six inch layer of slush covering the city. The mission would be more difficult, but maybe more rewarding for it. I gobbled down breakfast and headed for the Bridges.
I had a thought of maybe recreating the epic seven bridge journey I’d made one Easter a few years back, 59th, Roosevelt, Tri-boor, 125th Street, Brooklyn, Manhattan and Williamsburg… thought better of it. I concluded that it being President’s Day, my objective would be OK, ok, corny and obvious, I’d walk the GWB… hey what the ho, maybe I could start a new tradition.
Like many of my bridge walks this one started with a hoof over the Pulaski on my way to the 7 train. Like many of my bridge walks, I got to the 7 only to find that, fuck, it was closed again. Luckily I caught a shuttle right away and had a nice above ground bus trip through that beautifully ugly part of Long Island City on up to Queens Plaza. Being dumped immediately at the base of the 59th Street Bridge called out for a warm-up walk so off I went.
I’d done the 59th late Christmas Eve, walked it at 2:30am after midnight mass. The 59th, not my favorite, but probably the most meaningful, after all, it had been our means of escape a few falls back. A grand old bridge, the last one built before the Ammann dynasty. Some think it ugly in it’s overwhelming sturdiness, I prefer to enjoy the almost “added-on” ornamentation that tries desperately to decorate it’s utilititarianism. Hey, it’s my bridge, the one I see out my window. A familiar old lady who has helped me out and given me a warm feeling when crossing her old crusty soul into or out of the city. I only hope they don’t paint the life out of the old rusty bitch over the course of her current restoration.
Had a nice chat with the old gal as I crossed head long into a blustery sleety headwind. Exiting the 59th, on either end is mostly unceremonial, the city side more so in so much as you’re literally dumped into a tiny hole of a street with a gaggle of cars trying desperately to navigate what god himself would not have been able to design an intersection into that worked. [By god, of course I'm referring to Robert Moses]. I got the first soaker of the day coming off the old lady, but was undeterred and kept moving towards the President’s Bridge.
I half attempted to make it uptown to the GWB entirely above ground. That objective came to an end when I crawled down the hole at jumped the 1 train up to 181st street. I was bit wobbly from the 59th walk. I think the weekend had caught up to me and that, coupled with the miserable day, had left me a bit pooped. I think I was half hoping the GWB would be closed, hey at least the attempt would have been made. As I approached the gate, it almost looked closed, but it was just the angel, the bridge was open, it had to be walked.
Sometimes I do feel a little manic when in the middle of these pursuits. Othertimes I don’t quite have that total overwhelming desire, nor do I get that rush of satisfaction after getting over one of them. Indeed, crossing the old lady didn’t whip me up for the next crossing. Maybe it was only because of all the cities Bridges the GWB is the least personal, more the pursuit of triumph and conquest rather than a mystical metaphor for some fanciful moment of realization that the East River Bridges provide me. Maybe because the only thing you can really do once you cross the GWB is cross it back home again. Maybe because once crossed, you’re in Jersey, an ugly bland part of Jersey at that. I decided on creating a rather pedestrian quest for this trip, I’d cross then go in search of a bar I could smoke in.
This pedestrian quest helped little to raise any spiritual moment, especially when I found out that the bridge had not been plowed. I had an almost miles walk through six inches of dirty brown slush while constantly afraid of being blown into the Hudson. I walked hugging the road railing putting me at target for great globs of salty muck flying from the wheels of the cars and trucks zooming along I-95. Sleety rain had soaked my glasses and a crushing fog had all but buried the city, couldn’t see a damned thing so I basically put my head down, walked in low large steps and trudged my way to New Jersey. Couldn’t wait to get down off the damned thing and have that beer.
I’ve already mentioned that the Jersey side of the GWB is kind of grim. I was unprepared for just how grim it would be. Fort Lee is a frikin’ wasteland. Under two inches of wet snow, it’s an annoying frikin’ wasteland empty of any redeeming feature, or… bar. I found one that seemed closed, not just for the holiday, but forever. I walked through empty streets holding nothing but those bleak 14 story high rises, not built to house the poor, but rather built to house the almost poor who had no clue as why they were alive and who had been given no warning that living in these lifeless slabs would eventually suck the last ounce of interest in anything out of their souls. I finally found a renovated shopping area, unfortunately it was a Korean town, unfortunately apparently Koreans in Fort Lee don’t seem to need a bar.
I settled on the Plaza Diner, a place I’d passed earlier but passed on in hope I’d find a little familiar local. I settled for wine instead of beer and was happy to see an ashtray on the counter. The waitress was nice, she showered my with the usual number of “huns” and “sweeties” you expect when being served at an old classic diner. She even joined me in a glass and gave me the heads up on how to catch a bus back to the city. Although I had an inkling to end the day on my old pal the Williamsburg, I had NO intension of walking back across the GWB.
The bus ride back to the city included some nice new views I’d never seen, but after the first few miles it all started to look horribly the same. Miles and miles of busted down old discount stores peppered with the usual number of Pizza shops and Duane Reades. I guess I was more tired than I thought as after a time, I just stopped looking out the window, went into my head only to find my weekend companion, this sadness still hanging around, playing a game of solitaire waiting for me to get home so he could pound another shot into my stomach.
Bridge walks are not specifically meant to lift ones spirits, they’re just a nice thing to do when you have time to fill and things to think about and/or talk to yourself about. What one can think about while bridge walking is as varied as the weather one faces while crossing. They definitely aren’t meant to cheer you up on a lonely day, AS for the most part they are a totally solo endeavor. OK, crossing with Dan has always been a pleasure, AND those very few times a special guest has followed through and joined me has been, well, special; but for the most part a bridge crossed alone, is a good bridge crossed.
I probably did have certain expectations that a good walk or two would have cleared some cobwebs and helped me deal. I guess I have just reminded myself not to have these expectation or risk diminishing a perfectly good bridge walk. Maybe I should dump a bunch of the other expectations I’m currently holding onto as well. Settle in for a long period alone with not much else to do.
Maybe if it’s nice tonight I’ll walk home over the Williamsburg Bridge.
