A Bridge Too Far
The tribulations of being a bridge enthusiast in a family of bridge-haters
My mom hates bridges. I’m not sure why, exactly — and I don’t think she does either — but she’s had a phobia of them since childhood. Crossing bridges, regardless of whether it’s on foot, on a bike, or in a car, terrifies her.
Unfortunately for her, I am the complete opposite. Maybe subconsciously it was some sort of small rebellion on my part. But I think mainly, I just always found them really beautiful. Looking at them from afar is nice, but when you’re on them, and the water stretches out all around you — that’s when you really get a view.
So whenever we took family trips, I would seek out bridges. And my mom would try her best to be a good sport, for my sake, but sometimes her fear still got the better of her.
One particularly memorable example of this was in Canada, the summer before I went to college. We could have stayed in downtown Ottawa, but I insisted that we stay in Gatineau instead. Our hotel was easily walkable to Parliament and all the museums that we wanted to see in Ottawa…but only if we crossed a very long bridge across the river. Nothing could dissuade me from my choice. Aren’t teenagers considerate?
