Shaken, and Stirred

We had an earthquake here this morning.

I was in a conference room on the 41st floor of a modern office building in downtown LA, along with five other people.

It took a moment for us to realize exactly what was happening.

Then one woman dove under the very substantial conference table, and the rest of us followed. While the earth shook and the building rolled, I sent Zach a message from my BlackBerry.

Subject: Earthquake

Message: Am under a table right now.

By the time I hit "send," things had settled down, and I quickly sent a second message letting him know I was OK.

And that really should have been that. Most people around me had been in Southern California long enough that they were desensitized to the whole thing. To them it was more an annoyance than anything—like a car alarm or a fire drill, an interruption to be tolerated until they could get back to whatever they'd been doing a few moments before.

Once we'd gotten the all-clear announcement, I went to check on the two colleagues with whom I work most closely. Both of them were completely fine.

But I didn't know that for more than two hours.

As time passed, I became increasingly concerned about their safety. Although I kept hearing that there had been no reports of injuries, and other co-workers kept assuring me that they were fine, I was very much on edge. The later it got, the more worried I became, and the less I was able to convince myself that everything was OK.

It turned out that both had been outside the office, on their way to separate lunch appointments, when the earthquake hit. A BlackBerry accidentally left behind, phone lines down—these and other circumstances prevented me from reaching them.

The fact that they were both missing, coupled with how blasé everyone else seemed to be, is what really threw me. I was trying to stay calm but couldn't mask my concern, and the tension between those two states of mind over those two hours took an emotional toll.

It took a few more hours before I realized that some of this was September 11th blowback—that feeling of dread in the absence of information was palpably familiar.

I didn't know until today just how different it was to be in New York on that cataclysmic day, and how deep a mark it left in our collective unconscious. To be in a tower on a warm Tuesday morning, to seek refuge under a table from an unseen threat to one's safety, to wait with growing alarm for word that others have been found alive and well—these resonate in a visceral way for those of us who experienced 9/11 at close range.

It's just different here. "Welcome to LA" is what many people said to me this afternoon, most in a cheerful, offhand way.

Here, when the city shudders, it's business as usual.

In New York, the people shudder, too.