The traffic is backing up. It's almost rush hour, but strangely silent. It's a weak breeze. The fog is hardly moving.
I walk among huge clusters of tourists. I'm also a tourist, but I walk alone. And now I sense the geared-up atmosphere of getting close to a hot spot. There's also something else. It's like an awareness in some people's eyes, the way they look at me. It comes up every now and then. Is it the look of anticipation?
Then I realize what it is. It's the bridge. The Golden Gate is a symbol of architectural genius, it really has an air of grandeur, but it's also a symbol of our failures. More people have committed suicide at the Golden Gate Bridge than at any other site in the world.
I walk underneath the bridge and listen to rushing cars and dripping water. I once considered suicide, or at least I feared that my life was sliding in that direction. I was young, and didn't have any experience with everything that comes to a pass; depressions, ambitions, love, anger, etc. It has all come to a pass. And then trouble reappears, and passes again.
What got me though was the notion that suicide is murder. It would have killed my parents. And that realization put an end to it.
I walk away. I'm trying to photograph the bridge as something else than a bridge. But it's just a bridge.
The buzz from cars and tourists are getting softer. I'm walking among the dripping wet foliage. Closer to sea level I hear the slushing of waves. I can see the Asians fishing. I can smell the lovely smell of water.
I'm starting to remember The Bridge, a documentary about the jumpers. I'm remembering that elderly guy with a red cap, who flung himself from the railing, no-nonsense style. It chills me to the bone.