14 Crossings
Written By Ken Sonenclar
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1 dad, 2 kids, 8 hours, 10 bridges, 4 tunnels. The perfect Sunday drive.
The modernist Marcel Duchamp once argued that America's only contributions to art (aside from phenomenal plumbing) are her bridges. My 4-year-old twins might agree. They love New York City's majestic bridges and endless tunnels, even the tired old Whitestone, its sea-green towers begging for Rust-Oleum. And so on a fateful spring afternoon, watching my kids thrill to our approach to the mighty George Washington Bridge, I suggested we devote one day soon to nothing but bridges and tunnels.
Upon reflection, I believe I was delirious from the exhaust clogging the toll plaza. I forgot about the idea before we got home to suburban Mamaroneck. My son and daughter, of course, did not. I almost slipped into shock the next Saturday when four small hands pummeled me awake. "When are we going on the bridges?" they asked. "When? When?"
"Soon,"I mumbled, and pulled the blanket over my head.
Later, I get out my atlas and count more than 80 bridges and tunnels crossing New York's rivers and bays. I'm only planning a day trip, so on what basis do I winnow down the list? Architectural merit? Historical importance? The least traffic? Interesting considerations, but all secondary. I have no doubt that my twins, like Hemingway's Santiago, want only the big ones.
I fill a trash basket with itineraries that don't quite work before settling on 10 bridges and four tunnels. We will hit all five boroughs and New Jersey. A few hours surfing the web and reading Sharon Reier's The Bridges of New York prep me with engineering specs, bios of the egomaniacal builders, and so on. Now I feel armed for the thousand questions my kids are sure to pepper me with. (My son makes Tim Russert look like a Carthusian.)
the beginning
Sunday morning is already hot and muggy, a dog day in May. We pile into our station wagon at 8:30. My wife's anxiety matches our exhilaration, and she makes me promise three times that the kids will be all right. We set off in fine moods, the twins calling each other Horace and Jasper, names they've adopted after watching 101 Dalmatians continuously the last six months.
And before I know it we're speeding through the Bronx toward the Henry Hudson Bridge, which the kids long ago nicknamed the Blue Bridge, since it is. As we rumble over the potholed lower deck, I dig into my new storehouse of "bridgeiana." Legend holds, I casually mention, that an Indian princess who lived on the Manhattan hillside had to be moved to make way for the bridge. My daughter looks disappointed when I admit I don't know where the princess went. But, like an overeager politician, I add that the Henry Hudson is the longest fixed steel arch in the world.
We're across Manhattan and midway over the Triborough Bridge to Queens before I'm done explaining what steel is, what an arch is, and that the bridge was never broken. I almost add that the stretch of water below is called Hell Gate. But I doubt I have the stamina to answer the questions this would raise.
A quick ride under the El and we're on the Queensborough Bridge. "Eccch!" my daughter says, and I agree. Better known as the 59th Street Bridge, the Queensborough seems like a failed improvisation with an Erector set. I tell her that not all bridges are beautiful.
"Why?" she asks, pushing her fine blond hair from her eyes.
I think for a moment. "Because maybe the most talented people don't build them, or they run out of money."
"Why?"
"That's a good question," I evade, then slip in "Simon and Garfunkel sang a song about this bridge."I know that the word Garfunkel will trigger 10 minutes of laughter.
It's only 9:30. I decide to take a break because we're making such good time. We head downtown and park. Standing on Fifth Avenue, I point at the Empire State Building and announce we're going to the top. The kids barely nod. We ride the elevators up and push onto the crowded observation deck. I clear a spot for them to peer through the metal grating. I succumb to the splendor and could spend the morning gazing uptown. "That's Central Park," I say, just as the kids turn away. "Look!" I insist, as my daughter slaps her brother on the shoulder. "You're it, Jasper! Catch me," she yells, though I collar her before she flees. I tell myself to lower my expectations as the twins coo over the giant pencils in the gift shop.
Back on the road, a few blocks from the Queens-Midtown Tunnel, I'm eager to see my daughter's reaction. Her enchantment with tunnels, I'm sure, has blossomed partly in response to my son's early claim on bridges. In fact, the only tunnels she's actually been through are highway underpasses. So this is like showing a whale to someone who's only seen goldfish. No matter that the tunnel is dim as a coal mine and just as filthy. "Tunnel!" she shouts as we fly through.
The next hour passes too quickly. We ricochet across the Williamsburg, Manhattan, and Brooklyn bridges. I want the twins to appreciate each bridge, but there is no good place to park. The kids don't mind. The bridges accommodate strollers, bicycles, and trains, as well as cars in lanes narrow as bowling alleys. (Keep your hands inside!) It's a three-ring circus out there. And even at 40 miles per hour, the Brooklyn Bridge's remarkable granite towers and harp- like web of cables make a deep impression. My daughter announces halfway across that it is her favorite. My son, perhaps venting a nascent sibling rivalry, proclaims, "I like the Williams Bird the best."
I mention that the Brooklyn Bridge was finished in 1883. Two blank stares tell me that the concept of "1883" is meaningless. No matter. I pass out sandwiches and chips as we glide into the Battery Tunnel for our final trip across the East River. "Tunnel!" my daughter proclaims, her ardor undiminished.
We emerge and hurtle down the highway to the big one, the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. The bridge is so long, I announce, that it is slightly arched to match the curvature of the earth. Thankfully they don't probe this point.
The Verrazano deposits us on a wide-laned expressway, and I surprise the kids by zipping off it to the Staten Island Zoo. I don't realize how sweltering it is until we're out of the car. My daughter wilts as we cross the baking blacktop, but I know she will mutiny if I suggest we skip the animals. She perks up when I point out a sign for pony rides. But they tell us at the riding ring that the heat has forced the ponies inside on humanitarian grounds. Instead we wander the cool but pungent monkey house. My daughter's cheeks are still flushed and I carry her to the car. Could it be sunstroke? I'm a dead man driving if she's sick.
