Bridge to somewhere

Let me begin by putting something out there: I have an unhealthy obsession with bridges. True, I'm mildly uncomfortable with heights, and the idea that a big hunk of metal suspended like magic over a raging body of water could hold the weight of thousands of cars is more than a little difficult for my poor little brain to comprehend. But for some reason, I can never cross enough bridges to quench my thirst.

It might be the view--there's something so irresistible about looking over a panoramic water vista that I invariably terrify all the passengers in my car by staring out the window when I should be watching the road. More likely, it's just an addiction to the anticipation of what's on the other side. I'm only slightly ashamed to admit that when I cross over the Bourne Bridge onto Cape Cod, the excitement comes because I get to prove my superior ability to navigate a Massachusetts rotary in full summertime tourist swing: my hand hovers over the horn, waiting for the delicious opportunity to cut off an unsuspecting out-of-stater who's circled around three times just trying to find the right exit.

Every summer, I cross over a little green bridge to a small island in North Carolina, where I spend a week or two with my extended family. You'd expect the first crossing of the year to bring some sense of suspense--what's changed in the 50 weeks since we were last here?--but then the excitement should wear off, right? But even though I've probably been over the bridge a hundred times since we first visited the island in the mid-'90s, it never gets old, no matter how many off-island packie and food runs I'm sent on. I'd even venture to say that I'm more content just driving those few yards over the intracoastal waterway than sitting on my butt in a beach chair later on.

So imagine my excitement when I discovered this weekend that in order to get to Newport, Rhode Island, one must cross not one, but two--TWO!--large bridges. The western one, Jamestown Bridge, looks like a roller coaster from the bottom. Not for the faint of heart, but as you can imagine, I was thrilled. (Unfortunately, I didn't dare whip out my camera for fear of careening off the edge--see aforementioned fear of heights. I did, however, find this image of the bridge, courtesy of samholland on the Flickr Creative Commons, just so that you, dear reader, can witness this spectacular feat of engineering.)

The second bridge involved a toll of two dollars, which, although steep, I paid to help Rhode Island pay for their beautiful roads. (You're welcome.) Plus, my directions told me to go that way and I was still reeling from the Jamestown, aka Mount Everest, and the thrill was like crack.

I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering Newport with my sister. I'd been there once, in high school, but it seemed completely different yesterday. The plan was to go to the town's Oktoberfest celebration, but we scrapped the idea after a cop told the line of several hundred people that the event was full and they wouldn't sell any more tickets until some people cleared out. Instead, we went to the Smokehouse Café, where we got an open-air table and enjoyed heart-stopping chili nachos and a half-rack of ribs in the warm light of the sun over the harbor. The weather was outstanding: when was the last time I got a sunburn on an October afternoon?

After all that salt, we needed something sweet: enter the Cookie Jar down on Bowen's Wharf. They must have just made a batch of snickerdoodles, because as soon as we walked in we were enveloped in a sea of sweet cinnamon and sugar, and we couldn't resist ordering one along with the M&M sugar cookie we decided to split. They turned out to be the perfect mix of thick and soft, but I think the snickerdoodle was the favorite. In fact, I was just about to comment that I had finished my half of the first one before Sarah had finished hers (I tend to eat slowly and savor treats like this, while she can't get them in fast enough), when I looked down and realized she had already eaten her half of the second one, too. Just look at that adorable little face of hers--she couldn't even contain her excitement.

We hopped in the car and drove over to take a look at the famous Newport mansions next. The city is home to a stretch of Gilded Age mansions, designed by some of America's wealthiest families towards the end of the 19th century. Around the 1960s and '70s, preservation groups in Newport started opening the mansions to the public, making the city a notable tourist destination.

We parked the car off Bellevue Ave. and wandered down the street to the Salve Regina Cliff Walk. Sarah was disappointed to discover that it was somewhat of a misnomer: what they call a "cliff walk" was actually a safe, paved pathway between the mansions and the cliffs, with chain-link fences to protect visitors from plummeting into the choppy breakers below. However, we did enjoy meandering through in the sunset light, picking out which houses we'd someday inhabit (you know, once we've made our millions, her as a teacher and me as a writer).

The sun finally set, and the temperature promptly took a nosedive, so we set off towards home--Massachusetts for me, and college in Connecticut for Sarah. The bridge crossings were almost as beautiful at night, but the trip was spoiled: as I was crossing the Newport and preparing to pay the extortionate two dollar toll again, I remembered that Sarah had told me about how she had no cash in her wallet, but had luckily found an emergency stash of two dollars on her way there. It was just enough to cover the fee, but we had forgotten about the return. A vision flashed into my head of my poor little sister stranded forever by the tollbooths, unable to pass through. I called her and discovered that she had managed to scrounge up the correct change in dimes out of the crevices of her car, so she would be able to successfully return to the rest of civilization.

Oh, Newport Bridge, you cruel, cruel lover.