Flash Fiction
I have always felt sorry for people who live and work in San Francisco because they don’t get the thrill—and it is a thrill—of approaching the Golden Gate Bridge from the north. The curved descent down 101, with its shaggy eucalyptus trees on one side and the Bay and its boats on the other, is always beautiful, and the entrance into the dim old tunnel is always suspenseful, but then, at the end of the tunnel, when the Bridge itself emerges? Hello there! It’s stunning. Stately, startling, tower after tower stepping toward you, expanding through fog or bright sunshine through the arch, drawing you straight into the city. So what if you are driving to a doctor appointment or a court appearance or a funeral or simply commuting to a dreary job. Magic has happened. Be glad.
