a walk across golden gate bridge
cw: mentions of su*cide
On a foggy and windy Saturday with nothing else to do, I decided to finally make the trek across the Golden Gate Bridge. Its construction began in 1933, almost a century ago, and connects the mile-wide strait between San Francisco city and Marin county.
The roar of cars drowned out most of my music (the entire collection of Keni Titus, on shuffle + repeat). My first steps onto it were timid and overwhelmed -- I could not believe how loud and unserene the experience was. I thought of the people who had made the walk, same as I, for the purpose of jumping off this bridge. There were signs, starting from the park, that told readers to text 731731 if they needed help, and that ‘there is hope.’ I felt the weight of all the ghosts walking with me, and in my head replayed that chilling statistic, that 100% of those who survived jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge said they regretted it on the way down.
The bridge is a beautiful, marvelous piece of architecture, supplemented by nets and barbed wire fences to prevent people from committing to their jump. I estimate that if one really wanted to though, one could jump past the flimsy nets into the stirring water below. I wondered about the people who made this bridge, and whether they knew or considered that their architectural marvel would become a beacon for those wanting to end their lives. I wonder if it’s the atom bomb of architecture; you make a grand structure, and suddenly everyone wants to jump off of it.
Halfway through, and I still haven’t stopped thinking of how to die on this bridge. I was afraid of my own morbidity -- I don’t want to die, but I couldn’t help but think obsessively about it here. Maybe it was the weight of all the ghosts, again. I look to these yellow Lego lamps as lighthouses in the night, stable and serene. I love the two arms that rise elegantly to hold the light, and I can just imagine the soft yellow lights shining from them onto the sidewalk after dark. The person who picked this shade of red and this shade of yellow did a very good job.
When I thought it was more than halfway (in hindsight, it wasn’t), I walked past a long forgotten Equator coffee cup (a tall one -- maybe 16 oz?) rolling in its spilled contents, a murky tan staining the sidewalk pavement. It looked frigid -- I could taste the cold latte on my tongue. I tried to walk past it, but came back for it and rescued the cup from its inevitable fate of being blown into the ocean. I thought of the seals who might have eaten this cup. It was a terrible choice to pick this cup up, I realized, as the bits of latte flew around in the wind and soaked into my white skirt. It was gross and wet, and I had no choice but to hold it between my thumb and pointer finger, my right arm bent at a 45 degree angle away from me, both avoiding the splash zone and also making it very clear to other people that this wasn’t my cup. Despite my efforts, I don’t think anyone thought I was a good samaritan, maybe just someone very clumsy who spilled their coffee. Or maybe they wondered why I was holding my matcha closely and then this other cup so awkwardly.
In about 20 steps, I came to regret my decision of picking up this cup, because there were no trash cans until Marin, which was looking further than 0.5 miles with every step I took. I thought about how much more I would be enjoying my walk if I was not holding on to this disgusting cup, and discreetly eyes all the bridge-post-ledges I could leave this cup. I could never do that though, because then I would be the one committing the active littering felony, because I touched it last. I regretted subjecting myself to this terrible, achy experience (my arm was beginning to hurt from this weird position) just for some seal who probably wouldn’t have eaten the cup anyways. Why did I do these things to perform ‘lover of the ocean’ for people who didn’t even think I was being a good citizen! I’m saddened to report that the second half of my SF -> Marin walk was awful, the only solace being that I finished my matcha and could put the coffee cup inside so I wouldn’t have to touch a strange, gross cup anymore.
Finally -- Marin. I threw away the coffee cup and experienced an incommensurate pang of joy. I tried to alcohol spray the coffee stains away from my skirt to no avail, then headed into the public restroom to wash them away. The cold, wet part of the skirt would flap against my right calf ocassionally on the walk back, a viceral reminder of my good deed and made it feel worth it. I looked at all the people taking photos of each other from the Marin side, and felt superior for having an experience beyond posing for instagram (this has become one of my treasured hobbies after quitting instagram). I should also clarify that taking a photo did not exempt me from feeling and being superior. Actually, even if I was the subject of the photo, the superiority would still be there because it is unfounded in the first place, so it doesn’t really follow logic.
On the return trip, the traffic became a curtain of anonymity behind which I sang out loud, only stopping when the ocassional runner got within shouting distance. Otherwise, it was just me, the fog, the ocean, the bridge, and the endless stream of cars. The Marin side was emptier; I assume most tourists coming from San Francisco only walked the first 1/3 of the bridge. On the way back, I made a game of the narrow sidewalk; I stuck close to the railing (left) and slowed enough so that pedestrians coming from San Francisco to Marin (who had the right of way on the side of the railing) would have to pass me on my right. In this manner, I walked without having to circumvent anyone, for the entire mile, up until the very end, when my pausing (unusally long, waiting for a lady and her dog) gave that lady an opening to ask me to take a photo for her. This was a strange experience, as she didn’t pose, but strolled casually toward me without looking at the camera from 2 meters away. I realized belatedly that she was posing, candidly -- so, unfortunately, the shots weren’t very good.
In a culmination of all the awkwardness of this trek, I tried to signal a thumbs up to this guy who ran past me at least 4 times at full sprinting speed -- what in the world is he training for? -- but he fully ignored me. Very cool. Overall I enjoyed this walk -- I like having time with myself and thinking and singing in public, and what a great context to do all of these things in. If I came with a friend I would choose not to talk to them the whole way. I think the bridge is best experienced in solitude.
VIEWS MY OWN
subscribe to new fieldnotes
I’m a 20-something year old living in Cambridge, Massachusetts, USA. I’m a lover of life - in particular, sunsets over the ocean, thunderstorms, niche playlists, long meandering novels, and all cats. Fieldnotes are detailed observations collected by anthropologists, sociologists, and ethnographers while situated in an environment of interest; the obsessive intensity to learn and grasp and make sense of phenomena during the collection of fieldnotes is the way that feels most reflective of the way I live life. My fieldnotes serve as reminders for me of how beautiful, short, and stunning life is.