In 1994, I was living in Los Angeles. My old roommate's boyfriend moved into a new studio apartment in the Hollywood Hills on January 16th, and she and I agreed to be his muscle for a large quantity of pizza and beer. The place was one of those dainty efficiencies built after WWII to house the single men who flooded California looking for fun in the sun. It had one room with a Murphy bed, a kitchen, and a bathroom. Our modern West Coast bachelor was not certain about the wisdom of sleeping on something that spent most of its time in a wall, so he moved in a futon couch along with his other possessions, mostly consisting of approximately 1,500 lbs of vinyl and 800 lbs of books. We finally collapsed at about one AM on the 17th, they on the futon and I on the Murphy bed.
About three hours later, I awoke with the peculiar sensation of being on a boat.
Whaddya know? I thought, We've had an earthquake.
I rolled over and went back to sleep only to be shaken awake this time by my old roommate who was screaming,
"Opti!!! GET UP! There was an earthquake!"
This did not please me.
"But it's over," I said.
At this point, Old Roommate and Bachelor both began yelling at me that we needed to evacuate the building immediately. Willing to do just about anything to restore them to their indoor voices, I made to get out of bed. At which point, I realized that the entire ceiling had dropped everywhere except on my head which was happily ensconced within the wall. I beat both of them to the door and may have shoved several people including small children on my way down the stairs.
We piled into Old Roommate's car and drove around gaping at the blown out windows, brick buildings with chunks missing from corners, and random gatherings of Angelinos standing in the dark looking utterly undone. We finally ended up at Old Roommate's newish apartment complex, thinking it had probably been built with better engineering than my 1940s cottage or the Bachelor's pad. We dragged two mattresses into the living room, lit every candle we could find (a terrible idea, I'm sure), and tried and failed to sleep. Sometime in the afternoon, the phone line was restored and we called our loved ones to reassure them that we had survived. It was they who informed us of just how bad it had been. It was days before we learned that 33 had died and almost 9,000 were injured.
Unsure of what to do with ourselves, we decided to take a couple of bottles of champagne down to the complex's swimming pool. The building manager was obviously stymied by our choice, but after ascertaining that our flutes were plastic, not glass, she left us to it. And there we stayed, bobbing like drunken ducks, swaying with the occasional aftershock, Bachelor in his boxers, Old Roommate in a neon blue one-piece, and me in a yoga outfit that resembled a Victorian bathing costume. The following days were a surreal taking stock of damage and injury to our favorite places and people. My Tio's house in Ventura that had marched a good foot of its foundation. The gorgeous plate glass window at my work. Cuts and bruises. We learned the term "liquefaction." We tried to volunteer, only to find that we were useless. We gave blood (which was not needed). We fell in love with Ozomatli, a band that had formed with a grant from the city to produce PSAs. Is there a greater public service announcement than a great song?
My brother had been in the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake which was horrifying. Although, his first reaction to that one was as flip as mine was to Northridge: he was grilling hot dogs in anticipation of the third game of the Bay Bridge World Series. As they began to roll around, he concluded that the weed he was smoking was fairly righteous. The devastation that the Bay Area experienced harshed his mellow pretty quickly, though. 63 people died, almost 4,000 were injured, and as many as 10,000 were left homeless. Sobering indeed.
Japan's recent quake must have some humorous anecdotes, but it is hard to imagine what they might be given the vastness of the tragedy. The latest reports tell of 1,700 dead, countless injured, and hundreds of thousands homeless. The explosion at the Fukushima nuclear plant led to the evacuation of 210,000 people. Tsunami warnings were issued for almost every country with a coastline along the Pacific.
A dear friend, La Peruana, and I had planned to go out last night, and she did not back out despite staying up all night worrying for the safety of her friends and family in Lima. We went to Zengo, Richard Sandoval's whimsical Latin-Asian fusion restaurant in DC's Chinatown. The mix of cuisines from the counties most affected by the earthquake was oddly comforting. It seemed like a lovely way to celebrate the peoples of the Pacific rim and keep them in our hearts and thoughts while we enjoyed a night out.
We made it in time for HH, a raucous affair at the downstairs bar, and enjoyed insanely good caipirinhas as well as two small plates. We also got to meet the charming manager, Allison, who somehow managed to manage everything with a great deal of poise and sly wit. We finished our tuna wonton tacos and papaya salad which were exceptionally tasty and ordered another round of those devil caipirinhas as well as the pork arepas and the vegetarian roll.
photo by DavidAll06
I then fainted. Yes, right at the bar. Allison cleared a space for me on one of the opulent banquettes and I raised my knees and lowered my head until the ambulance rolled up. La Peruana and I enjoyed some very funny chit chat with my EMTs, John and Nick, while we waited for my BP to ascend from 80 to 114. I signed a waiver indicating that if I died, it was no fault of theirs and we departed for Adams Morgan. Feeling better, I demanded that we stop at Millie and Al's for a pizza, Jameson, and good cheer. Despite a dizzy spell, it was a wise decision. It is, by far, my favorite bar in DC with one of the best staff you could hope to find anywhere. And they didn't blink when I employed the salt shaker directly on my tongue. Bless them.
