skirt/lace top/beanie, Express. Recycled silk Scarf, The Culture Shop. denim jacket, vintage Levi's. boots, Jeffery Campbell Lita's.
Photography by Erin Magoc
I call this my bridge. Its real name is the 40th St. Bridge, but it's my bridge like the Brooklyn Bridge was my bridge when I lived in New York. I take this bridge to get to my road to everywhere, Route 28, a perpetually backed-up, under construction, PennDot clusterfuck constantly bottle necked, constant traffic. You can't hear a traffic report in Pittsburgh and not hear "28's backed-up," the reporter's bored tone slips deeper into a malaise for that number and those words, as if the phrase is just a grunt that driver's automatically understand to mean, "it will take 2 hours for you to move 23 miles." Yeah, this bridge gets me to that special frustration.
I go for runs on this bridge, people honk their horns and I'm never quite sure why. I highly doubt that I look honk worthy in an oversized hoodie, but people are weird.
Living in a city full of bridges is pretty damn cool. It hearkens back to some childhood obsession with an ability to walk over water, preferably a simple log positioned a little dangerously over a creek which garners a certain riskiness that intoxicates the under 16 self with perilous excitement. I still get that feeling, every single time I run or walk across a bridge, as if this sturdy architectural element could mindfully be transformed into the precariously placed log, and a "Cross at Your Own Risk" sign should be involved. Everything looks different when you have that bridge-feeling. The Sun is bigger, and the city is jaw-droppingly gorgeous.
I could try to go on and claim that this is very much a Pittsburgh obsession, this is after all the "City of Bridges," but I think the multitude of such passageways actually makes bridges totally quotidian here, sometimes even an annoyance...ahem, 31st St Bridge...McKees Rocks Bridge...West End Bridge...I could go on. They're an annoyance when one is in a vehicle, trying to get somewhere: work, soccer practice, date, home. But bridges are best served straight up, not on the rocks of your Kia Sedona when your trying to get to your daughters dance recital; or in your Ford F-150 when your trying to move a load of scrap; or in your Mercedes SL Class when your trying to just fucking drive. Bridges must be walked across, so you can feel the elasticity and the cars whizzing by and the wind from the open space. Although if you are the one with the Mercedes SL Class and you had a wide open, mile long bridge...that would probably be pretty blissful as well, just sayin'.