In September, 2000 we first set foot in New York City for a cousin’s wedding. My clearest memory from that trip was a walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. Planned as a fun family outing by our parents, our 9-year-old brains could not grasp the concept of bridge-walking as an enjoyable or worthy use of time. Walk across a hot bridge, just to walk right back? Where’s the sense in that?
Protests and complaining failed. So we really stuck it to ’em and would run ahead to the each bench, plop down and pout till they caught up, when we would then repeat — for the entire length of the bridge — this charming act.
Of course, now it turns out that one of my favorite pass times is walking across the bridges. Specifically, the Williamsburg Bridge.
It may not have as much history or be as architecturally striking as the Brooklyn, but it has character. It’s covered in graffiti that’s updated constantly, it’s pink-ish, and it’s not packed with tourists. Mostly, it’s full of hipsters and Hasidic Jews streaming out of Williamsburg. (The hipsters on bikes and skateboards, and the Hasidic Jews pushing baby carriages.) And there is also the fellow who stands in the middle of the bridge most Saturdays with a boombox and a bottle.
We’re certainly going to miss living so close to the Williamsburg.