Keep bridgetown quirky

Spending Time at St. John’s Bridge

Turning and twisting amidst the giant foliage (and unexpected traffic) must have distracted us from our knowledge of the city’s infrastructure, because the sudden appearance of the Willamette River comes as a welcome surprise. One look off the perched traffic light, and all that meets the eye is stretches of metal across an empty river. Rather than one united city, it seems as though we have walked in on two friends holding hands.

The drive, although beautiful, is oddly long and complicated as we curve around the dense verdure of Forest Park and move farther and farther away from the dense population of downtown. On the left, a constant stream of greens whizzes by, while on the right, a graveyard of freight trains interrupts our view of the central river. After crossing a couple of other bridges, passing through an entirely industrial neighborhood, and tiptoeing around the natural reserve, we finally climb up the road that brings us to the mouth of the bridge, St. Johns. 

Sticking my head out of the window as we cruise across, a fresh dewy breeze tousling my already unruly hair, I look off the side of the bridge to see what world we are crossing into. Compared to the reflection of the lush forest in the side mirror warning me that objects are closer than they appear, the area we are driving toward looks more spacious, almost too tranquil. Though we are still in the city of Portland, this particular bridge connects a forest to a large-but-quiet residential neighborhood.

As we park and disembark underneath the bridge with too much ease, adjacent to very few cars, I notice that most people ventured to the space on foot. The parking lot still has a long way to go until it hits full capacity, but the paved roads littered around the park itself are sparsely occupied by foot traffic. 

The weather is brilliant; even at ten in the morning, the skies are electric blue, the sun is beaming, and the air is crisp — only one of which is characteristic of this region. A certain bridge back home would love to receive this amount of sunshine. The grand cement supports underneath are dull when compared to the surrounding aquamarine palette, but their guise of seriousness provides reassurance and security to the little communities socializing beneath them.

Despite the ideal weather conditions, and despite it being a Sunday, the bridge and its surrounding area feel a bit vacant. Walking around the arches of Cathedral Park, I occasionally catch sight of an owner playing fetch with a dog companion, or a couple out for what looks like a morning stroll. What I see more of is vibrant greenery, starting from the faded emerald of the bridge and bleeding into the well-kept patches of grass (like the one the dog companion is fetching a ball on) and the cascading rope-like leaves of a weeping willow. 

Instead of a bustling crowd of tourists scrambling for the best family photo with the city’s landmark, we found ourselves alone in our photo-taking and awe. Passersby stroll right by the spots where we stall to get one or more shots at a slightly new angle, and we are definitely making the most commotion by far. Now it is reaching noon, but the volume of noise and energy makes no move to rise above the low vibrations of a weekday morning.  

Maybe this city is too quirky for me to understand, or maybe there was never anything to try and understand in the first place. Its proximity to and infiltration of nature injects a sort of peace and groundedness into the air, with no urgency to impress newcomers or explain itself.

Words: Anna Fang

Photos: Apollonia Cuneo