Pedestrian Bridge Quotes

We proceeded to make way across the mighty Hooghly River, a monstrous offshoot of the Ganges, where we contemplated for a moment, our thoughts seemingly caught in the roaring southward current; there we gazed, toward where the city transitions into mangrove jungle, and somewhere a bit further to the southwest where all the rivers split infinitely like capillaries, where those famous Bengal tigers trod among the sunderbans. Peering in that direction, Bajju gripped the vertical bars just above the horizontal pedestrian railing, breathing slowly and silently, knees locked, still, despite being on arguably the busiest and loudest bridge in the world.

They were as unexpected as a mirage, those dancers on the Pont des Arts. Strictly speaking, the bridge is for pedestrians only, but waltzing is allowed on special nights like this. A guitar, a violin, an accordian -- a tune everyone knows -- and the dancers begin to twirl, spin, soar and glide all around us, in love with life at 3/4 time. Did I say waltzing was allowed? Under these circumstances, it's mandatory.

It was called A Ford, Not a Lincoln, and in it, Richard Reeves described him as “slow, plodding, pedestrian, unimaginative,” “inarticulate,” and “ignorant”—though you didn’t have to take Reeves’s word for it. He also quoted the president’s Grand Rapids pastor: “Gerald Ford is a normal, decent, God-fearing man, but you can say that about a lot of people.

To cap off your Trastevere stroll with one more sight, consider visiting Villa Farnesina, a Renaissance villa decorated by Raphael . To get there, face the Church of Santa Maria in Trastevere and leave the piazza by walking along the right side of the church, following Via della Paglia to Piazza di S. Egidio. Exit the piazza near the church and you’ll be on Via della Scala. Follow through the Porta Settimiana, where it changes names to Via della Lungara. On your right, you’ll pass John Cabot University. Look for a white arch that reads Accademia dei Lincei. The villa is through this gate at #230. If you’re in the mood to extend this walk, head to the river, cross the pedestrian bridge, Ponte Sisto, and make your way to Campo de’ Fiori, where the Heart of Rome Walk begins.

You are driving home. You listen to ‘Tongue Tied’ by Grouplove. Someone side-swipes the Ferrari. You almost strike three pedestrians and crash into a Dunkin’ Donuts. This is somewhere near the Brooklyn Bridge and you find out—later—the lady who hit you, she died. She was old. “Wasn’t wearing her glasses,” someone on the street says. “She was basically driving blind,” the police officer says. “I’m surprised this didn’t happen earlier.” An EMT examines you. You try and act normal. “Am I hurt?” you ask. “You’re not hurt,” the EMT says. You talk to the cops. “Am I in trouble?” you ask. “You’re not in trouble,” a young cop says. You freak out a little. You can smell pomade in your sweat. “Everything is under control,” someone says—another police officer. You freak out some more.

There was just enough room for the tonga to get through among the bullock-carts, rickshaws, cycles and pedestrians who thronged both the road and the pavement--which they shared with barbers plying their trade out of doors, fortune-tellers, flimsy tea-stalls, vegetable-stands, monkey-trainers, ear-cleaners, pickpockets, stray cattle, the odd sleepy policeman sauntering along in faded khaki, sweat-soaked men carrying impossible loads of copper, steel rods, glass or scrap paper on their backs as they yelled 'Look out! Look out!' in voices that somehow pierced though the din, shops of brassware and cloth (the owners attempting with shouts and gestures to entice uncertain shoppers in), the small carved stone entrance of the Tinny Tots (English Medium) School which opened out onto the courtyard of the reconverted haveli of a bankrupt aristocrat, and beggars--young and old, aggressive and meek, leprous, maimed or blinded--who would quietly invade Nabiganj as evening fell, attempting to avoid the police as they worked the queues in front of the cinema-halls. Crows cawed, small boys in rags rushed around on errands (one balancing six small dirty glasses of tea on a cheap tin tray as he weaved through the crowd) monkeys chattered in and bounded about a great shivering-leafed pipal tree and tried to raid unwary customers as they left the well-guarded fruit-stand, women shuffled along in anonymous burqas or bright saris, with or without their menfolk, a few students from the university lounging around a chaat-stand shouted at each other from a foot away either out of habit or in order to be heard, mangy dogs snapped and were kicked, skeletal cats mewed and were stoned, and flies settled everywhere: on heaps of foetid, rotting rubbish, on the uncovered sweets at the sweetseller's in whose huge curved pans of ghee sizzled delicioius jalebis, on the faces of the sari-clad but not the burqa-clad women, and on the horse's nostrils as he shook his blinkered head and tried to forge his way through Old Brahmpur in the direction of the Barsaat Mahal.

People stepping up and down should not be a problem, and even the 1-Hertz sideways back-and-forth movement of humans walking should not have been a problem, as everyone is likely to be stepping at different times. For anyone pushing with their right foot, another person would be pushing with their left, and all the forces would pretty much cancel each other out. This sideways resonance would only be a problem if enough people walked perfectly in step. This is the “synchronous” in “synchronous lateral excitation” from pedestrians. On the Millennium Bridge, people did start to walk in step, because the movement of the bridge affected the rhythm at which they were walking. This formed a feedback loop: people stepping in sync caused the bridge to move more, and the bridge moving caused more people to step in sync.

[Hyun Song Shin] most accurately portrayed the state of the global economy. 'I'd like to tell you about the Millennium Bridge in London,' he began…'The bridge was opened by the queen on a sunny day in June,' Shin continued. 'The press was there in force, and many thousands of people turned up to savor the occasion. However, within moments of the bridge's opening, it began to shake violently.' The day it opened, the Millennium Bridge was closed. The engineers were initially mystified about what had gone wrong. Of course it would be a problem if a platoon of soldiers marched in lockstep across the bridge, creating sufficiently powerful vertical vibration to produce a swaying effect. The nearby Albert Bridge, built more than a century earlier, even features a sign directing marching soldiers to break step rather than stay together when crossing. But that's not what happened at the Millennium Bridge. 'What is the probability that a thousand people walking at random will end up walking exactly in step, and remain in lockstep thereafter?' Shin asked. 'It is tempting to say, 'Close to Zero' ' But that's exactly what happened. The bridge's designers had failed to account for how people react to their environment. When the bridge moved slightly under the feet of those opening-day pedestrians, each individual naturally adjusted his or her stance for balance, just a little bit—but at the same time and in the same direction as every other individual. That created enough lateral force to turn a slight movement into a significant one. 'In other words,' said Shin, 'the wobble of the bridge feeds on itself. The wobble will continue and get stronger even though the initial shock—say, a small gust of wind—had long passed…Stress testing on the computer that looks only at storms, earthquakes, and heavy loads on the bridge would regard the events on the opening day as a 'perfect storm.' But this is a perfect storm that is guaranteed to come every day.' In financial markets, as on the Millennium Bridge, each individual player—every bank and hedge fund and individual investor—reacts to what is happening around him or her in concert with other individuals. When the ground shifts under the world's investors, they all shift their stance. And when they all shift their stance in the same direction at the same time, it just reinforces the initial movement. Suddenly, the whole system is wobbling violently. Ben Bernanke, Mervyn King, Jean-Claude Trichet, and the other men and women at Jackson Hole listened politely and then went to their coffee break.

Sigurd motions him to wait and ducks his head to listen to his com. Cassius is not having it and grabs my hand and drags me after him away from the courtyard. Sigurd rushes after. “My friends. They say they will come to us.” “Where?” Cassius shouts. Sigurd points up to the acropolis in the distance, the highest place in the tiered city. Cassius’s expression falls. “Anywhere but here!” I shout. “I’ll fly you,” he says. “Did you not see the Golds?” I ask. His face hardens and his eyes settle on the pedestrian bridge that links the sealift station to the city. He leans down to say over the noise: “I am your shield. Stay in my shadow.” Sigurd fires at something behind us. “Move.” The two armored men and I set off at a run.

In the cities of the future, pedestrian bridges connected the buildings and highways were sunken on tracks below them. No one would get run over in this futuristic world.

I typed the winery address into the GPS and then proceeded to pull out of the rental company driveway. I screeched and slammed on the brakes every four feet until I got out onto the street. There was going to be a learning curve. The GPS lady successfully got me over the Golden Gate, but I didn’t get to enjoy one minute of it. Paranoid that I was going to hit a pedestrian or a cyclist or launch myself off the massive bridge, I couldn’t take my eyes off of the car in front of me. Once I was out of the city, I spotted a Wendy’s and pulled off the highway. GPS lady started getting frantic. “Recalculating. Head North on DuPont for 1.3 miles.” I did a quick U-turn to get to the other side of the freeway and into the loving arms of a chocolate frosty. “Recalculating.” Shit. Shut up, lady. I was frantically hitting buttons until I was able to finally silence her. I made a right turn and then another turn immediately into the Wendy’s parking lot and into the drive-thru line. I glanced at the clock. It was three forty. I still had time. I pulled up to the speaker and shouted, “I’ll take a regular French fry and a large chocolate frosty.” Just then, I heard a very loud, abbreviated siren sound. Whoop. I looked into my rearview mirror and spotted the source. It was a police officer on a motorcycle. What’s he doing? I sat there waiting for the Wendy’s speaker to confirm my order, and then again, Whoop. “Ma’am, please pull out of the drive-thru and off to the side.” What’s going on? I quickly rolled the window all the way down, stuck my head out, and peered around until the policeman was in my view. “Are you talking to me?” To my absolute horror, he used the speaker again. “Yes, ma’am, I am talking to you. Please pull out of the drive-thru.” Holy shit, I’m being pulled over in a Wendy’s drive-thru. “Excuse me, Wendy’s people? You need to scratch that last order.” A few seconds went by and then a young man’s voice came over the speaker. “Yeah, we figured that,” he said before bursting into laughter and cutting the speaker off. The policeman was very friendly and seemed to find a little humor in the situation as well. Apparently I had made an illegal right turn at a red light just before I pulled into the parking lot. After completely and utterly humiliating me, he let me off with a warning, which was nice, but I still didn’t have a frosty. Pulling my old Chicago Cubs cap from my bag, I decided that nothing was going to get in the way of my beloved frosty. Going incognito, I made my way through the door. Apparently the cap was not enough because the Justin Timberlake–looking fellow behind the counter could not contain himself. “Hi,” I said. “Hi, what can I get you?” he said, and then he clapped his hand over his mouth, struggling to hold back a huge amount of laughter and making gagging noises in the back of his throat in the process. “Can I get an extra-large chocolate frosty please, and make it snappy.” “Do you still want the fries with that?” There was more laughter and then I heard laughter from the back as well. “No, thank you.” I paid, grabbed my cup, and hightailed it out of there.

That bridge…it has a reputation.” “What?” I asked in confusion. How the fuck did a bridge have a reputation? “The bridge is one of the few in the area that has pedestrian access…” “I don’t understand,” I admitted, still completely clueless. “The bridge has been a popular location for jumpers in the past.” I

Roper shrugged, cleared his throat and then swallowed the phlegm. ‘Never liked fish anyway.’ ‘Just pick it up,’ she muttered. ‘Throw it in a damn bin.’ He looked at her for a few seconds, licked his bottom lip, and then turned towards the river and walked away, leaving it there. Jamie stared at it, weighing up whether to pick it up and prove Roper right, or to leave it and admit to herself that it wasn’t that important. She didn’t like the idea of touching something that had been in his mouth, so she left it and followed him. This morning, they did have bigger fish to fry. Whether Roper liked them or not. There was a police cordon set up around the area and three squad cars and an ambulance parked at odd angles on the street. It ran parallel to the water, with a pavement separating the road from the grassy bank that led down to the body.  A bridge stretched overhead and iron grates spanned the space between the support struts, stopping debris from washing into the Thames. It looked like the body had got caught on one and then dragged to shore.  Some bystanders had gathered on the bridge and were looking down, at a loss for anything else to do than hang around, hoping for a look at a corpse.  Jamie dragged her eyes away from them and looked around. The buildings lining the river were mostly residential. Blocks of apartments. No wonder the body had been seen quickly.  There were six uniformed officers on scene, two of whom were standing guard in front of the privacy tent that had been set up on the bank. It looked like they’d fished the body out onto the grass. Jamie was a little glad she didn’t have to wade into the water.  To the right, a man in his sixties was being interviewed by one of the officers. He was wrapped in a foil blanket and his khaki trousers were still soaked through. Had he been the one to pull the body out? It took a certain kind of person to jump into a river to help someone rather than call it in. Especially in November. That made three officers. She continued to search. She could see another two in the distance, checking the river and talking to pedestrians. The conversations were mostly comprised of them saying the words, ‘I can’t tell you that, sorry,’ to people who kept asking what had happened in a hundred different ways. Jamie was glad her days of crowd control were over. She’d been a uniformed officer for seven years. The day she’d graduated to plainclothes was one of the happiest of her life. For all the shit her father did, he was one hell of a detective, and she’d always wanted to be one — minus the liver cirrhosis and gonorrhoea, of course. She was teetotal. The sixth officer was filling out a report and talking to the paramedics. If the victim had washed up in the river in November then there would have been nothing they could do.

The other traffic issue concerned the park’s users. Vaux and Olmsted came up with three categories of roadway that they simply called the “Walk” (for pedestrians), the “Ride” (for horseback riding), and the “Drive” (for carriages). All together, there are today about seventy miles of Walk, Ride, and Drive wending through the park. In the master plan, none of these paths ever touched. If the Drive crossed the Walk, a bridge was constructed to pass pedestrian traffic below the carriages. Similarly, the Ride was kept separate from the other paths so that horseback riders would never have to rear up suddenly when confronted with an obstacle.

The city centre is spread across several islands, connected by pedestrian bridges and cycleways. Oulu is also a significant technology city; the university turns out top-notch IT graduates and the corporate parks on the city’s outskirts employ people from all over the globe.

and the shutters on the shopfronts closing in the distance were all resoundingly clear in the stillness. White steam poured from our mouths and noses. Snowflakes landed on the bridges of our noses and our lips. They were quick to melt on our warm faces, and new, startlingly cold crystals settled over their wet traces. Neither of us seemed to be thinking about the separate paths we would have to take to get home. As we kept walking away from the subway station like lovers who choose a roundabout route to delay their brief goodbyes, as we traversed the hushed pedestrian crossings that appeared around every corner like yet another page in that book, I waited. For Inseon to break the silence and continue her story.

American accent. Broad shoulders, at least fifty years old. He was wearing generic sunglasses and a cap that read NASHVILLE PREDATORS. His lips were thin, sharp like a palm leaf. Lucie stood up; the man took up position behind her. The cop looked around for pedestrians, witnesses, but no luck. Alone and unarmed, she was helpless. They walked about a hundred yards without encountering a soul. A Datsun 240Z was waiting under the maples. “You drive.” He pushed her roughly into the car. Lucie’s throat was knotted and she was finding it hard to stay calm. The faces of her twins swam before her eyes. Not like this, she kept thinking. Not like this… The man took a seat next to her. Like a pro, he quickly patted her pockets, thighs, and hips. He took out her wallet, removed her police ID—which he looked at carefully—then turned off her cell phone. Lucie spoke in a slightly shaky voice: “No need—it isn’t working.” “Drive.” “What is it you want? I—” “Drive, I said.” She started the car. They headed out of Montreal due north, via the Charles de Gaulle Bridge. And left the lights of the city far behind.

all private citizens had to deliver their radios to the authorities, at the building of the former stock exchange. The threat, in case of non-delivery was so severe, that nobody would have dared to be found in possession of one. On the day, before the abandonment of the town, the building with the radios was set on fire. Not a single radio was left in town. Before the retreat, they also destroyed the electric utility station, the railroad bridge as well as the pedestrian bridge over the river Prut, the post office and the stocks of arms which they could not evacuate. Of course, we were left without electricity; no water pumping station. Those were inconveniences; we were left in a much more desperate state, unsure of our lives from that day on. The Russians were gone within 8 days. They offered no resistance against the German troops.

Little Dry Creek brings gold into the South Platte River just south of W. Dartmouth Ave at South Platte River Drive. Little Dry Creek upstream of here for quite a distance is all groomed and channelized but the river area around the confluence has some interesting features for prospectors as does the river just up and downstream. There’s even a pedestrian bridge across the river here so access to both sides is simpler. This is an incredibly historic

Bizzaro Time by Stewart Stafford I took dawn selfies on a bridge, Geneva worms conferred in slime, A woman's dog slithered serpentine, It snapped and hissed in bizarro time. A businessman's briefcase in flight, Went public in a philanthropist sky, Umbrellas blossomed into trees, Peacenik pigeon medal caught the eye. Coffee shops served liquid light, Brewed up pagan code of yore, Pedestrians' morphed molten form, Glass-blown in tangerine pour. We shared loop shrugs, muted pleas, Sober intoxication's escapist twist, A uniquely-marketed Tuesday morn, Dreamt up to commodify every tryst. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

The next evening, Mariamma returns home from Triple Yem after an exceptionally long day. Under the pedestrian bridge, the water moves lazily. The hibiscus and oleander are aflame. Two water buffalo, unyoked from the plow, stand silhouetted against the horizon, facing each other like bookends. The crickets pick up volume, sounding delirious, and soon they’ll rouse the frog chorale. These everyday, unremarkable noises of her youth are now, with the passing of her cherished loved ones, an ode to memory, bearing the past into the present. It is the hour for gracious ghosts.

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