It’s odd to come across it so unceremoniously, this thing almost too legend to be real. It’d be like sneaking up on Marilyn Monroe eating a hot dog, blushing from having spilled mustard on her blouse: a human moment for a being practically fictionalized by her own iconicism. To see it gem-like across the river, the city may as well be its own facsimile, a tourist’s pewter trinket forever romanticized in monochrome miniature. But before I know it, the GW deposits me in the real place: an exploded view of chaos and noise, reeking of sewage; at once holy and depraved, majestic and dismal. And on this July day, as hot as a pizza oven.