For decades now people consider the Golden Gate Bridge as one of the greatest monuments in the United States. It’s the identifying icon for every soul living in the Bay area. Not only is the Golden Gate Bridge the most photographed bridge in the world but it’s also one of the most overrated.
Yes, I said it.
Having grown up listening to so much hoopla about the bridge, there was no way I’d skip the bridge during my visit to San Francisco. Besides, a trip to the Bay area is incomplete without a lame photograph reminder of the bridge. And now that I have plenty of photos to prove I’ve been there, I’ve also acquired some knowledge about the Golden Gate Bridge that’s made it less impressive in my mind.
The Golden Gate BridgeTo be clear, I don’t hate the bridge. And no, I didn’t hear some grotesque story about the bridge’s history. But I did realise that the Golden Gate Bridge isn’t the only awe-worthy construction in the city. In fact, there are more attractions in San Francisco than people give it credit for. Speaking of bridges, though, there’s the Bay Bridge.
When I first saw the Bay Bridge, I was still high above the sea level. I stared down at the bridge through the window in my flight. From up there, I, like so many other tourists before me, mistook the Bay Bridge to be the Golden Gate Bridge. After all, a typical misinformed tourist to San Francisco only hears about the towering Golden Gate Bridge that they have to see. My neighbour in the flight explained my blunder to me, and to pacify me, he also commented I shouldn’t feel bad because so many people make the same mistake as I. That only made me feel smaller.
The Bay BridgeEven when I trudged to the Coit Tower about a week later, I saw the Bay Bridge more times than I did the Golden Gate Bridge. It was so massive that it popped up at every clearing. The Golden Gate Bridge, on the other hand, was shrouded in mist.
The more I learnt about the Bay Bridge, the more I felt bad for the injustice we’ve inflicted upon it. The bridge is the direct road running between the cities of San Francisco and Oakland. It’s a two-deck bridge that carries upto 260,000 vehicles a day, and was opened in 1936—about 6 months before the Golden Gate Bridge.
The Bay Bridge’s international orange-coloured rival, on the other hand, has always been the perfect spot for tourists and suicidal folks alike. And the fact that the mist from the ocean’s heat hides most of the bridge from view is only an additional attractive feature.
I won’t deny that the Golden Gate Bridge is beautiful. I will look at it all day if I could. But I will also look at the Bay Bridge all day. If I had to choose, I’d choose the Bay Bridge just because it’s more interesting. It’s interesting how much we humans under appreciate it despite the fact that it’s as deserving as the Golden Gate Bridge. It’s much like an under valued older son in a family of two boys.
During my trip to Pleasanton, California, I spent a few days exploring the city of San Francisco. Travelling from a developing country all the way up to a developed one such as the USA, I had no idea what to expect except awespiring sights.
When I stepped out of the Embarcadero Bart station and stepped into the streets of the city, I as if I’d walked into a science fiction movie about the future. On either side of the street towered buildings of all sizes and shapes. Posters and banners accompanied the buildings on high pedestals. The street below my feet lined with rail tracks while the sky over my head bore cable car lines. Pedestrians navigated between one another and skateboarders swerved through strollers. Down the street from where I stood, a clock and a sign announced the city’s name in all the grandeur it deserved. Further down was my first peek of the ocean and the supposed sea lions that attracted millions to the piers each year.
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My friend and I (for she was with me) had planned to take on a hop-on-hop-off bus tour. We reached the rendezvous point, met our bus driver, and got our tickets. We hopped on hoping to see the whole city in a day. Little did I know then that I’d have to come back twice more and still see only a fraction of the city.
Our first stop was Washington Square. Although I had no idea about the church there, it came as a pleasant surprise of architectural marvel. I didn’t want to spend too much time there, though. I was more keen on the Coit Tower because I’d read that the views are beautiful. And so we trekked to the tower navigating with the maps on my phone. In hindsight, going up the tower was the most touristy thing I had done in my trip, but the journey towards the tower was more satisfying than waiting for the other tourists to give us space at the tower’s window. Despite all the research I had done, I had no idea that San Francisco was all hills. So the path to the tower was strenuous than I’d expected—although enjoyable in every sense. By the time the views took my breath away, I felt glad I’d pursued the trail.
Coit Tower
Back on the bus, we heeded the tour guide’s commentary about Union Square when my friend’s eyes gleamed at the looming buildings. On every side, towering glass structures brimmed with people carrying big brown bags and smug looks. It was the shopping zone of San Francisco. We hopped off, me as an accompaniment. As a heroine in a flimsy movie about an ignorant girl from the visiting the city, I felt overwhelmed by the masses. Containing the balloon of fear that welled up within me, I followed my friend into Macy’s. Unmistakable and intimidating, it was the first building we saw. Inside was a different world altogether. From the breeze that kissed the back of my neck, I’d walked into a rush of people breathing down each others’. Perfumes and deodorants blended while excited voices echoed through the hallway. From a little bakery on the left wafted the scent of warmed butter and chocolate chips. With so many people and too much adrenaline, the place was too annoying for me to enjoy. But it was what it was: a shopping destination for every person. For someone who hates shopping, though, it was pure hell.
While my friend shopped around, deciding, I lingered in a corner passing judgements about the city I now stood in. It was easy: The city is big. Far too big, in fact, touristy, and vain. I didn’t like the city. It seemed to me as if people in the city only cared about living a high life and having fun. Nothing about San Francisco seemed soulful, and I accepted it as a fact I couldn’t change.
So without much hope or excitement, I followed my friend on to our bus, We stopped again at Painted Ladies. We walked up a hill and through a valley of lusciousness before some ancient architecture made my jaw drop. Even as I walked through the park to the houses, I felt my ideas about the city transform into something more liquid. The city didn’t feel hard and cold anymore. I was now at the other side of the city—the side that I could relate. Standing atop the little hill, I looked all around me in shameless greed to take in the beauty of the buildings. The Painted Ladies, I had read, referred to the more than 45,000 houses built in San Francisco between 1849 and 1915.
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They resembled Victorian and Edwardian architecture and were famous for their many paint colours. The weather had become chilly and as I hugged at my sweatshirt, I felt a rush of love towards the sight I faced. An inexplicable joy ran through my body and at that moment, I felt immense joy realising that the city of San Francisco had something for everyone.
Back on the bus I was trying to understand my change of opinion when our next stop arrived: Haight Ashbury. I wasn’t interested at first, but decided to check it out anyway. And I’m thankful I did. From the strict and straight lives of the city mongers, I had moved into the world of hippies. Even as our bus rode down the street, my pulse quickened and my face cracked a smile. The buildings sported graffiti, people wore their hair long and in colour, and some even skipped while walking. Just looking at them boosted my energy, and I had a compulsive urge to hop off the bus.
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Walking down Haight Street, I saw quirkiness and unruliness etched in every corner. A sense of rebellion hung in the air making me smile to myself like a maniac. Compared to the corporatism that lived on the other side of the city, here was the soul I searched for. Getting coffee from one of the shops, I stared at signs in most shops and peeped into some.
Evening was upon us and it was time for the next big thing on our list: The Golden Gate Bridge. It’s the ultimate tourist destination, and like any obedient tourist, we headed towards it. Although the Golden Gate Bridge is the most photographed bridge in the world, it’s just another bridge. The Bay Bridge is far more impressive, older, and longer than the Golden Gate Bridge. But despite all of its fascinating qualities, The Bay Bridge has always been under appreciated. What’s sad though, is that most tourists misinterpret the Bay Bridge to the Golden Gate Bridge. Funny how humans conform to the most popular opinions.
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We saw both bridges, and couldn’t keep our cameras off them. My sensible brain concluded that no matter how many pictures I took, I’d still find better photos online. It was a mere waste of time, but even then, my heart wouldn’t agree. From every corner I could, I clicked away at random.
That’s one of the curious things about San Francisco: It’s almost always filled with tourists making all the wrong assumptions, taking the wrong turns, walking in bike lanes, and gawking at the towers when they should be looking at the street they’re walking on. But even so, the city bore all nonsense with patience. Locals didn’t seem perturbed by the annoying straddlers who had taken over their city for a weekend. They, instead, went about their daily business, with mild smiles on their lips amused at all and the two Indian women trying to decode MUNI.
“We need to act now. For too long now, we’ve talked about saving our planet without doing anything about it.”
Jane had had enough. Her teacher had vouched that the documentary was worthy of her while. It wasn’t. It was just a rant about ancient humans. She sighed. Things had changed now.
Factories were organic now. They manufactured oxygen for trees and people. Vegan pills were meals, fruits superfoods, and meat non-existent. The weather remained temperate, ice solid, and volcanos dormant. For once, the air was clean and so were governments.
Life in 3017 was much different from life in 2017. Promising?
About a month ago, I boarded an aircraft heading westward. I had to fly to the United States of America to participate in an event for work. It was a three-week official trip, but I had decided to extend it by another week, making it a solo adventure.
When I walked town to the gates at the airport on August 22, I had no idea what to expect except a twenty-hour gruelling plane journey to the other side of the world. Friends had already scared me with stories of boredom, bad food, crankiness, and—worst of all—jet lag. Despite all of this, though, I was excited beyond myself. I’m not the kind of person who’d spend so much money to travel to the US. So though this opportunity came by me unexpected, I was determined to make the most out of it.
The first thing that hit me hard when I landed was how long the journey had been. I had been warned, yes, but even so, the last couple of hours in the aircraft had felt the longest. In hindsight, however, it was fun. I liked the food, I liked the service, I liked the fact that I had a seat by the window, and could look out at the clouds below us any time I wanted. Overall, it was comfortable flight and there was nothing I could complain about. I’d say Emirates is a good airlines, in case you’re looking for options.
Once I had overcome the mental exhaustion of the flight’s duration, I had to face the next big thing: immigration, customs, and baggage claim. It’s the least romantic part of any journey. The questions weren’t bad—but the waiting was horrible. It’s surprising how after waiting inside a plane for 20 hours, how hard it was for me to wait for an hour longer to claim our baggages. Funny, now. Hell, then.
When all was done and cleared, we (a party of five colleagues) headed out of the airport into the chilly breeze of San Francisco. We booked a cab and as we drove through the city towards Dublin, Pleasanton, the reality of the first world hit me hard. Unnoticeable to me were the streets. Six lanes of freeway (or highway as we call it in India) was massive for someone who’s seen only four lanes of it. And it seemed sensible, too, to have six lanes because the number of vehicles and the sizes of private ownership were much larger than any I had seen or imagined.
Unlike in India, though, the traffic moved. Perhaps it was the big streets, but our cab didn’t remain stagnant for more than a couple minutes at a time. We spent about 45 minutes in traffic—traffic that was more pleasant than the ones at home. We landed at 3 pm, but by the time we reached our hotel, it was 6 already. We checked in and checked out our rooms. Mine was bigger than what I needed, but it was quite evident from first glance that I’d have a wonderful stay.
Still trying to get my head around the largeness of everything around me, I cleaned up, because we should meet work friends who had arrived earlier for dinner. When I looked through my window, it was bright outside that I had to double check my phone. It looked like four o’clock in the afternoon, but it was seven already. I had to sit myself down to comprehend the weirdness of nature. The sun still wasn’t sure whether it wanted to set.
And while I stared at its dying embers, I received a message saying restaurants would soon close. But it’s only 8! I yelled inside my head. The sky had become darker while I left the room and joined my colleagues at the reception of the hotel. I wasn’t hungry but we had to get food and then sleep, because we had to head to work early next morning. One of our colleagues who had lived in the US all his life, decided to take us to a burger place—almost every other restaurant would close within the next half hour.
That was another surprise for me. Dublin, Pleasanton is a small town. And most of the population was older. There was no active nightlife, and most of the shops shut down at 9 with a a handful of exceptions closing anytime after 10. That’s not what I expected when I travelled to the US. For me, America had resembled fanciness, priciness, and unnecessary vanity. I had expected to walk into a boisterous disco-like restaurant when in fact I walked into an almost empty restaurant.
We ordered burgers—at least that wasn’t unsurprising—and grabbed ourselves some water and mustard. When my bacon and blue cheese burger arrived at my table, I had to take a deep breath before I could even digest its size. It was double the size of whatever I could eat. And that was the smallest burger in their menu.
I managed to eat it without hating myself. It did taste pretty good, after all. But even then, portion sizes in America seemed ridiculous to me. Not only did Americans eat so much food, but they also topped it off with sugar soda or sugar milkshakes.
By the end, I’d had an eventful first day in the US, and was ready to sleep.
The Chaos Within 