I’m in San Francisco for a few days for a family get-together. It’s the usual beautiful summer here, with clear skies and only an intermittent bit of the fog for which the city is famous, just enough to give a slightly mysterious atmospheric mist now and then.
I arrived very late Thursday night and didn’t get to the house where I’m staying until the wee hours of the morning. Between the rigors of travel and the late hour, by the time I finally got to sleep I was fairly well-zonked.
Which explains why the earthquake failed to even wake me up.
The next morning people were talking about it. As earthquakes go, it was relatively mild, but there was enough of a kick in it that even the natives woke up, sat up, and took notice. Not me.
This, however, continues a long tradition of mine, which is this: far more often than chance would dictate, a noticeable earthquake occurs within twelve hours of my appearance in any city in the state of California. So, perhaps I should issue an alert when I’m about to arrive.