The Verrazano-Narrows Bridge turns fifty today. I never realized that I had traveled it since its birth. When I was growing up my grandparents lived in Far Rockaway; across the bridge, past Coney Island, and then some.
Driving there from New Jersey always involved a contest to see which of us kids could spot the bridge first. Crossing the sky-blue bridge in a sky-blue Peugeot, three of us across the back seat, no seat belts. Even then it felt like a portal to another time and another place.