When my mother had completed three decades traveling around the sun, she decided to put her career on pause and travel around the world solo for two and a half years. But neither the sunsets of Bora Bora, nor the life-giving Ganges, neither prim Switzerland, nor surfing Australians could woo her away from California forever. ‘After all,’ she says, ‘There’s only one bridge like the Golden Gate.’
Lisbon did not find its way onto her itinerary, so she never saw the Ponte 25 de Abril.
A wrinkle in the spacetime fabric has folded the map in half, linking Lisbon and San Francisco with a single, identical bridge. I watch night kindle the ember-red cables with electric stars. As I stare at this bridge I can look through the folds of spactime and see San Francisco. I have found a portal to transport me home, if only for a moment.