Bridge of Sighs

By Patricia Winton

The grand old department-store-of-yore, Woodward and Lothrop, used to occupy two buildings in downtown Washington, D.C. A pedestrian skyway allowed customers to browse both buildings without facing the weather—somewhat like modern shopping centers. I always found that walkway appealing, and while it wasn’t unique, it was the one I knew. After the store folded its wings and closed its doors, I realized I’d first been fascinated by such a pedestrian bridge in Venice.

The Ponte dei Sospiri (Bridge of Sighs) connects the interrogation rooms of the Palazzo Ducale (Doges Palace) and the attached Old Prison with the New Prison across the river. Built between 1600 and 1602 by Antoni Cortini, the enclosed bridge provided prisoners no hope of escape as they moved from one side of the river to the other.

Constructed of white limestone, the 36-foot-wide (11 meters) structure features two windows covered with stone grid-work on each side, another feature designed to contain prisoners. The span is comprised of two parallel corridors, one linking the prison with the magistrate’s office (used by visitors today), the other going from prisons to the interrogation rooms. Despite its grim function, the bridge is a monument to Renaissance creativity. A shallow arch supporting the walkway is dotted with sculptures of faces, all but one frowning. The arch is repeated as a design element over the top of the structure and embellished with scrolls.

One legend says the name comes from sighs prisoners leaving the palace interrogation rooms emitted at the bit of light they could see from the stone-clad windows. Once over the bridge, they knew there would be no return, whether they faced execution or imprisonment.

In truth, the name comes from the 19th century poem Childe Harold by Lord Byron:

          I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs,
          A palace and a prison on each hand.

Other lore holds that if lovers kiss under the bridge at dusk, they will be rewarded with eternal love. Promoted by gondoliers, no doubt, this legend sends lover-laden gondolas to the Rio del Palazzo (Palace River) every evening at sunset.

Today, skyways link many buildings throughout the world, offering people respite from heat or cold, rain or wind, as they traverse cities. Few people realize that it all began with a plan to restrict freedom, not provide it.

Please join me on alternate Thursdays at Italian Intrigues where I write about all things Italian. Next week, I talk about a special cheese.

Shelter from the Wind and Rain

A Wind-and-Rain bridge in Xiajiang, Guizhou

By Beth Green

Our first problem was that the guidebook told us enough about the villages to make us want to go there—but neglected to include a map.

Our second problem was that it was Chinese New Year, and the whole city of Congjiang had literally shut down. Luckily, one hotel decided to let us stay in the room for the holiday, as long as we paid in advance and didn’t expect anyone to change the linens for a couple of days. But restaurants, shops, and—worst of all—bus companies had all joyfully locked up for the first three days of the festival.

Deprived of ways to spend our money, Dan and I started walking. We found the bus station (closed down). We found one open DVD store, and one open fireworks stall. We bought things in each. We found one shivering Uigyur man on a street corner trying to sell barbecued meat sticks to nonexistent pedestrians. He was Muslim, he told us, and didn’t celebrate Chinese New Year. Tired of eating instant noodles in our hotel room because all the restaurants were closed, we bought as many meat sticks as we could carry.

But mostly, we sat in our hotel room and pored over the guidebook, trying to plan the rest of our trip. I kept coming back to a section about the Dong minority villages near Congjiang. The Dong people traditionally build in wood, unlike in other parts of China which favor stone, tile, and brick homes. A not-to-be-missed feature of these nearby (or so the guidebook hinted) villages were their Wind-and-Rain bridges and their wooden drum towers.

By the third day of our sudden travel stoppage, we were determined to find those villages, despite the lack of buses. We went out to the deserted street, and, after more walking, found a lone taxi driver willing to drive us out of town—as long as we didn’t mind that his four-year-old daughter rode with us because he’d been tapped for baby-sitting duty. We didn’t mind.

A Wind-and-Rain bridge near Congjiang, Guizhou

After some guesswork on his part as to where we wanted to go (apparently “some Dong villages out of the city” is not specific enough instructions), we drove off over a bumpy, dirt road and into the terraced hills.

The Dong minority people live a rustic lifestyle in the hills of southern China and northern Vietnam. They cultivate glutinous rice and raise pigs, water buffalo, and fowl. Their food is famous for being spicy and sour, and they’re known for eating dog. But, within China at least, they’re most famous for their beautiful carpentry.

Every traditional Dong village has a series of towers—bell towers or drum towers—which prick the skyline of their slope-roofed villages. If the village is on a river, then they’re likely to also have a Wind-and-Rain bridge, a covered bridge that acts not only as a way to cross the river, but as shelter for farmers coming home for the fields, and—side benefit!—as a gallery for local artisans who carve and paint decorations into the bridge columns and eaves.

Colorful dragons dance around a drum tower near Congjiang

The tiny villages we managed to visit that day—we went to three—had great examples of the Dong artistry with wood. We were particularly pleased because they didn’t look like they’d been rebuilt recently. Fires and the Cultural Revolution had destroyed many of these structures. In one of the villages, while I was taking photos of a newer Wind-and-Rain bridge I had a chat with an old man coming back from fishing. He led us through the bridge, pointing at the paintings from the 70s and 80s. These paintings were like public service messages, showing what to do in case of a fire, and urging young people to fight for China in case of a war.

The older bridges, in contrast, featured paintings of mythical (or lucky) beasts to add luck to those who crossed into the village.

An approximate million photos later, Dan and I returned to the deserted hotel in silent Congjiang and ate our instant noodles, pleased with a day of exploring and happy that our unplanned stop in Congjiang had given us such an interesting side trip.

More Than a Coat Hanger

By Alli Sinclair

As we’re writing about bridges this week, it would be remiss of me not to blog about one of Australia’s greatest icons—the Sydney Harbour Bridge. No matter where you fly in from, if you’re lucky enough to be on the side of the plane that allows you views of Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Opera house as you come in to land, it’s an unforgettable experience.

The Sydney Harbour Bridge is more than a means of getting cars, trains, and bicycles across the harbour—this bridge contributes to this city’s rich personality and helps bring millions of tourists to Australia’s fair shores.

Affectionately known as “the coat hanger”, the bridge was opened in 1932. The design was loosely based on the Hell Gate Bridge in New York and is the world’s fifth longest spanning arch-bridge. At a height of 134 metres (440 feet), the Sydney Harbour Bridge is the tallest steel arch bridge in the world.

In 1815, Francis Greenway originally conceived the idea for the Sydney Harbour Bridge, however, invitations for people to submit a design weren’t requested until 1900. Authorities didn’t find a suitable design so the idea was shelved until after the First World War. In 1922, English firm Dorman Long and Co won the contract and construction finally started in 1924. It took eight years to complete and needed 1,400 men, six million hand driven rivets, and 53,000 tonnes of steel to build the bridge.

As with any great piece of architecture, it’s not without drama. On March 19, 1932, the Premier of New South Wales, John Lang, prepared to cut through the ribbon to declare the bridge officially open. But Captain Francis De Groot of The New Guard political party raced forward on his horse and slashed the ribbon with his sword. He believed only a member of the royal family should open the bridge and after he was detained and the ribbon tied together, the Premier cut the ribbon.

It takes 485,000 square metres (5,220,496 square feet) of paint to coat the bridge. If that makes the mind boggle, think of it this way—the bridge requires 30,000 litres (7,925 US gallons) of paint.

Since 1998, it’s been possible to scale the bridge with a registered company. Secured to the bridge by safety wires, participants climb from the eastern side of the bridge to the summit, and over the arch to descend on the western side. On average the experience takes three-and-a-half hours and offers some of the most spectacular views in Sydney. The trip is for the fit, but if you can muster the strength and energy required, it is well worth the effort.

Sydney Harbour Bridge's most famous rigger, Paul Hogan, was interviewed in in the 70's by an Australian television show about his work on the bridge. Because of his comical behavior and charm as an "everyday Aussie bloke" during the interview, he became a hit with the audience and went on to host his own television shows and eventually star in the international hit, Crocodile Dundee. 

The Sydney Harbour Bridge is an integral part of Sydney’s landscape and has been involved in many celebrations of the city. In 2000, one million people walked across the closed bridge for the Walk for Reconciliation, to represent crossing the divide in response to the Aboriginal Stolen Generations inquiry.

For anyone near a television, they will also remember the wonderful fireworks and lighting of the bridge for the Sydney 2000 Olympics. And every year on the 31^st December, the bridge comes alive with fireworks in celebration of ringing in a new year. The bridge has also been closed for picnics with live music and there is a view to making this a yearly event.

It’s hard to imagine Sydney without the Harbour Bridge as much as it is difficult to picture the city without the Opera House. The landscape of Sydney, both manmade and natural, gives this city a unique personality that once people have experienced, find hard to forget.

Sure, I come from Melbourne and if you talk to anyone from Australia, you’ll know Sydney and Melbourne have a rivalry second to none. But I have to concede and say as far as architecture goes, the Sydney Harbour Bridge holds a special place in most Australian’s hearts, and I’m proud to have such a wonderful icon in our country.

Si-O-Se Pol—Bridge Over Multicultural Waters

Arcade on the Si-o-Se Pol Bridge
Photo by Siasard

By Heidi Noroozy

I’m a sucker for bridges. It gives me a rush to stand in the middle of a river, high and dry above the rushing stream, and contemplate all the places the river has been, from its source in the mountains to its mouth at the sea. I like to imagine the human stories that play out along its banks and think about the ingenious ways people have devised for crossing from one side to the other.

The Iranian city of Esfahan has a bridge that I’m sure was built just for dreamers like me. The Si-o-Se Pol Bridge spans the Zayandeh Rud River and connects Esfahan’s famous Chahar Bagh Boulevard with the Armenian neighborhood of New Julfa. This bridge is not only one of the oldest in Esfahan (built between 1591 and 1597 on the order of Shah Abbas the Great) but also the largest anywhere in Iran (45 feet wide and 175 yards long).

The Si-o-Se Pol is also known as the Allah Verdi Khan Bridge, the name of the provincial governor who oversaw its construction. Born a Christian in Georgia, Allah Verdi Khan Undiladze was captured during one of Shah Abbas’s Caucasus campaigns. He worked his way up to the position of commander in the Persian ghulam army, a special branch consisting of Christian captives. Later, Abbas appointed Allah Verdi Khan governor of Pars Province in southern Iran, and he eventually became the second most powerful man in the empire, after the shah. How’s that for a rags-to-riches story?

The bridge’s double-decker structure is built from the yellow brick and limestone masonry that is typical of Esfahan architecture. On a clear day, the color turns a burnished gold under the region’s relentless desert sun. The upper level holds the roadway, now limited to pedestrian traffic, and is flanked by two vaulted arcades. In the old days, when the bridge was a major thoroughfare crowded with carriages, farmers driving stock to market, and carts laden high with merchandise for the bazaar, these side corridors served as pedestrian zones where people on foot could escape the danger of being trampled. Today, they are quiet spaces where you can walk and admire the lovely arched ceilings and high brick walls.

Photo by Shahab Maghami

The lower level rests on piers, separated by 33 arched sluices where the river can flow past. These sluices lend the bridge its name, for Si-o-Se Pol means the Bridge of 33 Arches in Farsi. The piers, in turn, are supported on piles driven deep into the riverbed. The builders created these piles by digging shafts down to the stable bedrock, lining the shafts with earthenware pipes, and filling the pipes with stones and mud. Apparently, such pile construction was cutting-edge technology in the late 16^th century.

This bottom deck also contains a teahouse with tables and chairs set up along a narrow passage under the southern end of the bridge and also on an outside ledge near the shore. Between the tables, flights of stone steps lead to private chambers, where a family or group of friends can enjoy their tea out of public view.

My favorite features of the Si-o-Se Pol Bridge, though, are the alcoves set at intervals along the upper deck. They form little balconies overlooking the river, where you can sit and admire the view. See why I think this bridge was built for dreamers like me? I did sit in one of these alcoves once, contemplating the river, the distant mountains—and murder. (I am, after all, a crime writer.) It was where I came up with an idea for the novel I was writing at the time, in which a young woman is pushed from the Si-o-Se Pol Bridge and drowns in the river below.

Sipping tea under the bridge

I’ve also sipped tea in one of the teahouse’s little stone rooms. After dark one evening during Ramadan, my husband, his sister, and I sat on the red-carpeted floor, leaning against large cushions that lined the walls, and enjoyed little glasses of steaming tea. The river was calm that night, and we listened to it lapping gently against the stone piers, punctuated by the occasional crash of breaking glass.

Breaking glass? Curious, I crawled to the window of our stone chamber and peered down into the teahouse kitchen, which stood just above the water line. A man stood there tossing old water pipes (known as gheylians) out the door, where the glass portions shattered on the stone foundation over which the river flowed. (Note to self: Never go wading barefoot in the Zayandeh Rud—at least nowhere near the Si-o-Se Pol Bridge.)

The Si-o-Se Pol may not be the prettiest bridge in Esfahan. That honor goes to the Khadjou Bridge, which was built fifty years later. But I have to love a bridge whose history is rooted in three countries and two religions: Persia, Armenia, and Georgia and Islam and Christianity. Even better, it’s a bridge whose designers wanted people to take a moment from their busy day and notice the wonders of the natural world.

To get a close-up look at the Si-o-Se Pol Bridge, check out this video by Amin Eftekhari: