Regular readers of mine (and I thank every one of you) will know how much I love the Anzac Bridge. Yes, I do. Even on a cloudy, rainy day.
As I trudge through the park in my old trainers that squeak when they get wet so that I sound like I have a badly fitting fake leg, battling with my five dollar umbrella that keeps turning inside out with the wind even though Stavros from the you-name-it-we-sell-it-shop on the corner told me it was verry, verry good quality – you won’t be disappointed, lady; I look at the bridge and I feel my mood shift. And a smile begins to form.
It happens every time.
What is it that draws me to this bridge, this place?
Is it the way the shadows form on the water so that there is a world not just above the water, but below it?
Is it seeing the bravest birds soar over the bridge, jubilant at reaching such a height, wings spread like capes?
Is it hearing the whirr of the traffic as it crosses, keeping the city moving?
Or is it the sense of unity that sweeps over me knowing that my side of the city is joined permanently to the other?
I’m not the only one who feels it. People catch me taking countless photos and stop to talk. One woman paints the bridge in watercolours. Another is in a walking group that walks around the bay and over the bridge every Friday morning. Another young girl had her first kiss one night as the lights from the bridge shone on the water.
Is it the bridge or is it the bay that enchants us?
It is hard to be sure.
Whatever the reason we continue to visit, looking at the way the bridge touches the sky. Anchored like boats.