New Jersey town caught in scandal loves, hates that bridge

By Adam Geller

Associated Press

Published: Friday, Jan. 10 2014 9:18 a.m. MST

In this Dec. 1, 2013 file aerial photo, the tollbooth lanes, lower left, lead to the George Washington Bridge in Fort Lee, N.J. Many people have known little about Fort Lee until a political scandal centering on New Jersey Gov. Chris Christie enveloped the borough. Now for residents of the New York City bedroom community defined by both a feisty pride and frustration over the mixed blessings of proximity to the George Washington Bridge, the scandal is the reminder they did not need of how the bridge dictates the rhythm of everyday life.

Mark Lennihan, Associated Press

FORT LEE, N.J. — When Mayor Mark Sokolich's annual Christmas card showed up in mailboxes a few weeks ago, some residents took careful note of the photo selected for the front: the steely silhouette of this borough's treasured, and sometimes detested, George Washington Bridge — and a Revolutionary War cannon firing off a shot, as if to warn off unseen enemies who might try to threaten it.

"My opinion, just as a recipient of the card, I think the photo speaks for itself," said Tom Meyers, a fourth-generation resident, town cultural officer and student of Fort Lee's history, chuckling at the thought.

Until a political scandal centering on New Jersey Gov. Chris Christie enveloped this town of 37,000, many people knew little more about Fort Lee than do the thousands of drivers whose cars speed — or, too often, crawl — across its landmark bridge each day. The town was just the blur of glass high-rises and brick Cape Cods on the other side of the guardrail.

But to people who live in this New York City bedroom community defined by both a feisty pride and frustration over the mixed blessings of its chokepoint locale, the scandal is the reminder they did not need of how the bridge dictates the rhythm of everyday life — and the lack of recognition the town gets for the challenges that poses.

"We endure combat here every single day dealing with that bridge traffic," Sokolich said Thursday, when he stepped before television cameras to respond to allegations that Christie's top aides orchestrated a plan to clog the borough streets with traffic as a form of political payback. "So ... to deal with it from a man-made standpoint, yes, it's very frustrating. It is."

To those who know Fort Lee, rather than merely pass through it, the borough boasts a distinct identity, shaped by location and history. The borough distinguished itself first as the site of a Revolutionary War encampment used to stage a crucial, but unsuccessful attempt by George Washington's forces to turn back the British. A century ago, Fort Lee briefly reclaimed fame as the nation's pre-Hollywood capital of movie-making, where celluloid dramas shot atop the rocks of the Palisades gave birth to the term "cliffhangers." And it has long defied stereotypes of suburban sameness as a settling place for immigrant up-and-comers, with aging Italian and Jewish populations now giving way to Koreans and other Asians.

But the bridge to Manhattan is what puts the "gateway to New Jersey" on the map every waking day, and defines its modern-day consciousness.

The bridge's outline stretches across the insignia of both Fort Lee's fire department and its sister ambulance corps, as well as the police department's Web page. Each of the 20 cabs at Babe's Taxi, which has operated from the foot of the bridge since 1947, crosses the bridge at least 10 times a day, ferrying residents to and from New York's hospitals, nightclubs and museums.

People know here to set the clocks early to leave time to get their kids to school in the morning because of rush-hour New York-bound traffic. On their way to stop for coffee at Washington Bridge Plaza, they pass the Bridge Hand Car Wash and the just-opened G.W. Grill, where a DJ sets up on Fridays and Saturdays in front of a 10-foot airbrushed mural of the bridge twinkling at night.

In the shadow of the world's busiest river crossing, owner Don Sposa stood at the window of the bridge-themed restaurant Thursday, marveling at the majesty and frustrations of the span and now, the unseemly notoriety it has delivered to this often overlooked town.

"We need it. I guess we have to love it," he said of the bridge. "We have no choice."

When the marvel of engineering over the Hudson River opened in 1931, it was touted for its promise, soon colored by political reality.

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