“You lived in the Bay Area for how long and you never crossed the Golden Gate Bridge?”
It’s a tale as old as time, really. You spend so long in one place that you begin to take for granted the plentiful opportunities all around you. It may come to feel commonplace or unexciting. It’s easy to forget that you once looked at that place with doe-eyed, childlike wonder; it’s easy to reassure yourself that you have plenty of time to explore. “There’s always tomorrow,” becomes the daily refrain.
Having spent four years of my life living in Berkeley, California, I’m no stranger to the dramatic hills and rolling fog of its big brother to the west, San Francisco. It captivated me in a way few other cities ever have; that I squandered so many opportunities to get to know it better always left me with the unmistakable pain of regret.
And that gleaming red steel structure, that ubiquitous symbol of my cherished city by the bay?
I’d spent years admiring its grandeur from afar, preferably while perched high atop the Berkeley hills, though any old rooftop would have done just as well. To watch the sun as it sank into the Pacific ocean, its amber glow growing more intense with each passing minute, was an event that transpired no less than once per day, yet felt like nothing short of a miracle.
But those years flew by, as they often do, much faster than I could have anticipated. Perhaps in those pre-travel years I didn’t realize what I was missing. Perhaps I still thought I had time.
I made my way back to San Francisco a year or so after graduation and found myself seated below the bridge, watching cargo ships cruise by while a handful of surfers took their chances in the chilly, Great White-infested bay. I can’t tell you what kept me from taking advantage of the opportunity yet again, but I seemed content to simply admire its imposing presence from where I sat.
On my most recent visit just a few months ago, the umpteenth, I believe it was, I resolved to finally rectify my years of negligence. I’d finally make my acquaintance with the Golden Gate Bridge and I’d give it the attention it deserved.
My original intention was to wait for a friend to arrive to the city so we could rent bicycles and cross the bridge together, ending up in Sausalito and catching the ferry back to Fisherman’s Wharf. Anticipation began to build for what would no doubt be an incredible (albeit long-overdue) experience.
So when I set out on a run one foggy morning from the Marina district, I planned to run only as far as the base of the bridge. The friend hosting me at the time told me it was roughly 5 miles roundtrip and promised me I’d find a great cup of coffee at the turnaround.
A steady jogging pace that surprised even myself carried me to Crissy Field in record time. The excitement of being back in a city I loved so much on such a perfectly crisp late summer morning was surely masking the fatigue I should have felt.
Nearing the base of the bridge, I realized my years of procrastination would come to an end that day. My trajectory diverged sharply to the left as I began the climb up the hill that would lead me to the pedestrian walkway across the bridge. The intoxicating scent of the eucalyptus grove to my left induced an unexpected pang of nostalgia for my college days at Berkeley and a smile, equally unexpected, spread across my face.
My pace finally slowed as I reached the 101. I needed a moment to catch my breath–from the exercise or the anticipation, I can’t be sure–before sauntering onward.
Traffic roared by beside me, causing violent vibrations that made my heartbeat quicken once again. The wind howled, though that much was expected. Walkers and joggers and bikers zipped by; I kept to the right as instructed. The structure towered above me, in every way more impressive than my imagination, a book, or a photo could have prepared me for.
I finally placed a reluctant hand on the cold steel of the guardrail, followed by the other. Slight but fleeting vertigo washed over me as my eyes made their way down, down, down to the sea below. Sailboats appeared no bigger than bath toys.
Approaching the first tower, my eyes drifted up, up, up; my mouth hung open, forming the shape of the word “awe,” but never letting it escape.
I placed a palm flat against the metal once again, grazed my fingertips across the commemorative plaque. “Officers. Directors. Engineering Staff. Contractors.”
I attempted to wrap my head around this feat of engineering, one that had been completed a full 77 years earlier, but to no avail. I settled on just appreciating it instead as I tipped my proverbial hat to those who made it possible.
Before I knew it, I had ambled nearly halfway across the 1.7 mile bridge. Lost in the sensations, the eminence, the profound contemplation, I had forgotten I still had quite some distance to return. And I hadn’t even had coffee yet.
A few days later, I happily returned to the Golden Gate Bridge, this time by bicycle. My newfound appreciation for it was only further amplified. For me, this is the whole point of travel–to experience things firsthand is to appreciate them in a way I never could through a photograph or through words written in a book.
To experience something firsthand, all of your senses work in concert to create a cocktail of sights, sounds, smells and sensations–a moment that can never be reproduced. It becomes a part of you, and in its own subtle way that you likely won’t notice at first, it changes you.
A good photograph or a nicely written story can compel a person to travel in the first place, or perhaps serve as a crisp, clear memory after the fact. But there is no substitute on this earth for seeing something with your own two eyes.
I had to stand on that bridge with my own two feet to understand its magnitude, its importance, to feel compelled to learn the details of its history. I had to feel that bridge with my own two hands to have emotions stirred within me that I didn’t know existed, to be made acutely aware of every detail of my surroundings, to be humbled.
To realize that every part of this world is as much alive as I am–this is why I travel.
