June 29, 2016: Tourist
On my way to and from work every weekday, I see the bridge in the distance. Sometimes it is hidden behind a thick layer of fog, other times it stands tall amidst a thin layer, while other times it shines a shade of orange against a bright blue sky. On the weekends, I pay it a visit. Free from the focus of obligation and the duties of routine life, the weekends are a time for exploration. I have been living in the same city for sixteen years, but each year it is a new city and each day it is a new feeling. I grab a light jacket and make my way down the street to hop on the Powell Street cable car en route to its final stop in Ghiradelli Square. The cable car was crowded with bright faces, mesmerized eyes, and crying babies. Cameras were flashing and selfies were being sent around the world. I hopped off a block before the Square to avoid the rush, and strolled towards the bridge along the water. The fog was there, but light enough for the bridge to expose its magnificence. I found a bench and sat there, gazing at its wondrous beauty. This is my city. This is my mark of the Earth. Who said tourists can only be out-of-towners?