Since my return to Chicago, bridges have become a major part of my awareness; I see them everywhere, I photograph them almost obsessively. I reach their midpoints—on foot—and spit, Gypsy fasion, into the river. It keeps the Devil from following, according to some Roma superstitions and well…though I don’t believe in superstitions, I like the fact that at least one of them gives you a convenient excuse to pucker up and spit rather impressively into a river. People accept this behavior, and it’s surprising how many will mimic it, spontaneously, and then embrace it wholeheartedly, once they learn of the old wive’s-tale imported from a country that a zillion Americans can’t even find on a map. As I crossed the Michigan Avenue Bridge with Corey, I didn’t spit. I was walking face-on into a gaggle of tourists. They didn’t look friendly. There were so many of them I doubt that I could have gotten to the railing of the bridge to lean over the railing and pucker. The Devil, I think, would have had a hard time following me anyway. There were too many tourists, and well…at times, they’re an impenetrable mass. We were northbound, in search of things to capture. I’d photographed Nathan Hale the week before and was anxious to see him in daylight. Corey hadn’t seen him at all—at least not with his camera—and so it seemed reasonable to seek him out. On the way, we saw other things, and I was fascinated by the way the buildings along Michigan Avenue caught the light and shadows of the west-bound sun. I saw brass ornamentation on that day and thought of doorways to places like Agara and Ükür and other Eastern Fringes; I heard the voices of future characters in my head and endeavored to remember what they were saying. I eventually saw Nathan Hale in daylight, and as expected, he looked the same. A bit faded around the edges, but that’s just because copper patina needs proper light in order to reveal its verdant splendor. The light surrounding the statue of Mr. Hale was less than splendid. But sufficient. I’m sure I’ll cross the Michigan Avenue bridge again. It’s almost an inevitability. I’m sure that when I do, there will be tourists. I’ll make sure to walk against their flow. I’ll make sure to walk near the river-facing rail, and at the midpoint of that bridge, I’ll lean over the rail, pucker and spit. And if anyone says anything, I’ll just look at them and explain (in the accent of Ükür or Agara) that I’m a gypsy and that any good gypsy will spit midway across a bridge…to keep the Devil from following. *** As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and I hope you've all had a great weekend.