Bridging

Lately, I’ve been in a funk for a whole laundry basket-full of reasons, and needed to take action to pull myself out. Last week, I had planned on canceling my membership to the gym that is across the street from where I work because every day I walk out of my office building, the last thing I want to do is walk into another building, even if it is a gym. San Diego’s nice weather waits for me to be done with work, and invites me to enjoy the outside. Problem is, I intend to go for a walk after I get home, but once I go inside, there is the newspaper to read, dinner to start and email to check. I turn my back on the nice weather again, but its love for me is unconditional. It waits for me almost every day.

Today, I joined the nice weather and went on an exploratory walk with Scott through a part of town I do not know. I had heard that there are foot bridges that cross canyons in the Balboa Park/Banker’s Hill area. Looking it up on the Internet, I found that there are four pedestrian bridges of various lengths and made from a variety of materials. We mapped out our route and headed to the north end of Balboa Park. As we pulled onto a side road, we noticed a sign that said, “Marston House.” We could see a huge craftsman mansion lounging lady-like with skirts of green lawn encircling it. The path to the footbridge offered glimpses of the property that dipped down into the valley where Hwy. 163 cuts through. The footbridge, built in 1946, spans the freeway, whose relentless whooshing noise diminished the beauty of the neighboring hills. Crossing the bridge, we followed a well-cared-for trail that winds up the hill to a street set with squatting mansions. We walked around, admiring the huge houses and found another path that led back down to the trail. The homes were beautiful, but the residents probably don’t take advantage of their expansive yards and gardens because of the relentless noise coming from the freeway. They must be completely indoor-type of people. The bridge itself was the only bridge of the four we visited that did not have anyone on it. It seemed somewhat lonely. The website that I got the information on it said, “It is advised to avoid crossing this bridge at night due to its isolation.”

We crossed back over the solitary bridge and made a detour to get a closer look at the Marston house. Its carriage house had been turned into a gift shop where some overstuffed chairs invited guests to rest. Tables displayed typical gifts one would find in a museum gift shop: fancy stationery, expensive chocolates, handmade tiles, embroidered tea towels and books on the history of San Diego. We found out that we could pay to take a tour of the Marston House, or wander the grounds for free. We chose the latter. The lady who worked there volunteered some history on the place. It was built by Mr. Marston, who was very influential in shaping San Diego. He bought the land for Presidio and created a public park out of it. He was instrumental in the birth of Balboa Park, Borrego Springs and Torrey Pines Park. He created the San Diego Historical Society. His last daughter living bequeathed the family home to the city, and now it is a museum. I will tour the inside another day.
The Quince Street Footbridge spans beautiful Maple Canyon. It was a wooden trestle bridge built in 1905 for $805.00 to allow pedestrians easier access to the Fourth Street Electric Railway Line. As we parked, I noticed that there were no signs of a railway line left. The bridge has become a relic of the past. It sustained a lot of wood rot and was scheduled for demolition but was saved by being named a city landmark. Mr. Marston would have been proud. With the new designation came $250,000 to restore it. Now it is a solid structure, sure to last another hundred years. Approaching it, I noticed a couple sitting in the center, talking. They had a view of the verdant canyon 60 feet below.

A path meandered past thick-trunked palm trees. The canyon sucked up the recent downpours and pushed out long, green stalks of delicate grass.

I assumed the couple sitting in the center of the solid bridge was enjoying a romantic closeness, in the space between two city hills, and enjoying their relative privacy. Walking closer, I could hear that their words were not soft, and the look on the man’s face was hard. They were trying to work something out or end it. They came to the bridge to argue or to break up. They were suspended between being in a relationship and not. Would they part each going in a separate direction on the bridge? Would they each reach a different side, a different conclusion? Would the bridge forever symbolize the split, instead of what it was intended to do, and that is to join? I was filled with these questions as we walked a few blocks to the next bridge, the most spectacular or all.

The Spruce Street Suspension Bridge is hidden away and cannot be seen from the street. It sways as you walk across it, being that there is no support underneath and is suspended from a couple of thick, braided cables. An engineer named Edwin Capps designed it in 1912, almost a hundred years ago. Its grandness looks a little out of place now, since its purpose of helping pedestrians reach the rail line easier is obsolete. Here it is, like a princess choosing to settle in a village of commoners. Just stepping onto it brings gaiety, as it sways and bounces with every step. Another couple was on the bridge. They were standing in the center, embracing and enjoying the view of Kate Sessions Canyon, surrounded by lush hills and topped with interesting homes. The couple looked into each other’s eyes, smiling. It felt like he was going to pull a ring from his pocket and offer it to her right there. We scooted past them, not wanting to invade on their special moment. As we turned around to cross back, they were heading off the bridge, arm in arm, and smiled as Scott and I jumped on the bridge to make it bounce more.

The last bridge on our tour was the Vermont Street Footbridge that takes people from the Trader Joe’s shopping plaza in Hillcrest to the University Heights neighborhood. It didn’t look all that interesting, spanning busy Washington Avenue, yet several people were crossing it. The steel structure was built in 1995 to replace the rotted wooden one that was built in 1916. We walked across it, and as we did, we noticed that the bridge walls were embedded with quotes on panels of blue glass. The cement had definitions of “bridge” imprinted in it. There is bridge, like what we were walking on, the bridge of a ship, the bridge of a musical instrument, the bridge of the nose, the bridge of glasses. In the center of this bridge, right over the noisy street, sat a woman, surrounded by her bags. At first I thought she was resting from shopping, but as we got closer to her, I saw that her bags contained empty recyclables. Her face was buried in her arms. I don’t think she was crying because her breathing did not shake her body. Her solitary figure in that pose was a statue of sadness. Whether or not she was sad was unclear, since I could not see her face, but looking at her made me sad. Was there nowhere else more comfortable to rest than in the middle of a busy pedestrian bridge over a loud four-lane street? Maybe in some way, it made her feel connected. She could feel the vibration of the traffic, she could hear the conversations of the passer-by, she was seen by many. In her mind, this may have made her feel a part of people. I know I am conjecturing a lot. Maybe her load got too heavy at the apex of the bridge and she just stopped to rest. It is possible that if she had been on the isolated Upas Street bridge, the sound of her loneliness would have drowned out the sounds of the freeway and been too much to bear.

We concluded our bridge tour by going into Trader Joe’s and buying some sushi for lunch. My mood had lifted. The walk had bridged the gap between my funk and feeling fine. It was good therapy to be seduced by the nice weather and enjoy the outside air.