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.

Boxed In

This afternoon, the movers delivered the one piece of furniture we decided to bring from New York—our dining-room table—along with our gas grill, our hammock (complete with stand), Zach's bike, a mattress, and 70 boxes.

Yes, 70.

I know because they were numbered.

The grill and hammock (complete with stand) are in the backyard, still shrink-wrapped in protective plastic.

Zach's bike is adorning the living room, along with the rented couch, rented love seat, rented coffee table, rented end tables, and rented lamps. It's the one thing that makes the place look somewhat lived in (if you ignore the shrink wrap, that is).

The ridiculously heavy top of our butcher-block dining-room table is leaning up against a wall downstairs, not far from our borrowed dining-room table, which is set not with plates but with boxes, more of which are assembled underneath it. Neither table has matching chairs, so I've been doing most of my "dining" (takeout, frozen pizza, cereal, and the occasional healthy salad) at the coffee table, which has a better view of the rented TV.

The legs from our disassembled dining-room table are currently upstairs, in a room that until a few hours ago had been empty except for a litter box and our cable modem and is now home to most of those 70 numbered boxes. I can only hope that the cats can distinguish their box from ours.

Our mattress is upstairs as well. And while it's probably far more comfortable than the rented one that sits on the rented box springs that are in turn balanced on the rented bed frame, for the time being it is off duty, leaning up against the wall like a bored teenager.

I have emptied four boxes so far. One is already full of the crumpled newsprint I harvested in the process; another is waiting to be pressed into service as an overflow receptacle. The third has been broken down and folded up, and the fourth—the largest—has been repurposed as a fort for the cats.

If this keeps up I'll have to start my own business selling secondhand moving supplies.

And operating a day-care center for imaginative cats.

Candid Camera, Where Are You?

Classic moment of the day:

I decide to go to work really early to have some quiet morning time to work on a writing project. I'm ready to walk out the door right at 7AM, which is exactly the same time, I discovered, that some of our sprinklers come on.

The ones blocking my only route to the driveway and sidewalk.

Yesterday, I left not quite as early and was blocked by another set of sprinklers. These were closer to the front door, and neither as vigorous nor as far-reaching. Because I was running behind schedule, I decide to make a mad dash through the mist.

Even though I was wearing silk pants and new shoes.

I did stop long enough to roll my pants above my knees (a good look, to be sure). This meant that by the time I reached dry land, I had wet calves, damp shoes, and tiny drops of water on the very nice leather briefcase I received as a gift when I left my last real job in 2005.

I described the scene to Zach a little later, and we agreed that I'd come home and change the timer so that the sprinklers and I could live in harmony from now on.

Fast-forward to this morning.

I called Zach at approximately 7:01AM (the time difference working for me for a change) to report that I'd been stymied by the sprinklers yet again. Because of course I'd forgotten to reprogram the timer last night.

So I asked him to remind me where the timer was, thinking I'd just shut the sprinklers off, get to work, and deal with it when I got home.

That's when I found out that I'd have to walk through the very same sprinklers I was trying to avoid in order to reach the timer that would turn them off.

Zach, of course, found this to be hilarious.

I did not.

I said that the whole point of trying to get to work early was to actually get to work and that making it as far as the front porch DID NOT COUNT.

So I waited for the exact moment when those sprinklers shut off and then tore across the front yard, arriving on the driveway a split-second before the other set of sprinklers—the ones that thwarted me yesterday—started spraying the next quadrant of grass.

The best part is that I can look forward to the exact same thing happening tomorrow morning.

Because did I remember to reset the timer when I came home tonight, back when it was still light out?

<sigh>

Maybe I'll just sleep in.

Getty? Yup!

My mom and I spent Sunday afternoon at the J. Paul Getty Museum, that bastion of travertine and natural light. It's an exceedingly pleasant place to visit, whether you're interested in art or not. And while we were walking around, I realized why.

The Getty is not so much a museum as a resort.

It was designed by a famous architect.

The grounds are sprawling and pristinely beautiful.

The food is great.

The views are stunning.

The gardens are perfectly manicured.

There's even a pool (although you can't swim in it).

And, of course, there are gift shops everywhere.

Although it's completely different from a resort in one critical respect.

It's free!

(And parking is only eight bucks!)

Crashing the Party

Zach and I have been talking about collaborating on a writing project for some time now, and while this wasn't exactly what we had in mind, the opportunity to chronicle our adventures in LA (not to mention getting to LA) called out to us.

I encouraged Zach to start this blog way back when as a way for us to stay connected while we were on opposite coasts. The awesome name and logo are all his, and I'm just thrilled to be invited out on the dance floor with him.

We have some revisions and enhancements in mind, but until we stock up on down time, we're going to forge ahead with plain old prose for a while. We hope you'll come along for the ride.

In an environmentally friendly hybrid vehicle, of course.