You Are Here, with Earthquakes

No one in San Francisco lives here without thinking about the possibility of "The Big One." Or even the "Not-So-Big-But-Definitely-Noticeable-One." We don't walk around in fear every day; but small tremors of fear (pun intended) do pass through us on occasion--this is more true, of course, for those who have lived through a decent-sized earthquake before.

As San Franciscans, we are intimately linked to the end-of-the-continent precariousness of our physical and psychological situation. I thought about this as I looked at two cottages today in the Presidio.

Built in 1906 for "Camp Richmond," a large encampment of 1906 Earthquake survivors in the Richmond District, these humble 10 by 15-foot cottages provided nothing more than a roof over people's heads (of course at today's real estate prices, they could generate a cool $200,000, I'm guessing--I'm joking, of course--or maybe not...) They're oddly situated in the Presidio--tucked away behind a nondescript building which now houses private organizations, they would be easy to overlook (and I've passed by them a few times without noticing them).

Looking inside the small plate-glass windows, one sees many artifacts of the period--an iron bed, a washboard and metal pail, and so forth. They're set up to look like someone from 1906 is still occupying them.

"Talk about 'You Are Here,'" I thought as I peered inside. There's something deeply poignant about looking through those windows and imagining both what the inhabitants of those buildings were going through. And what we would go through today--though I doubt anyone would build a similar structure for us nowadays.

Without a doubt, living in earthquake country reinforces the feeling of now-ness that I already experience as the mother of a young child. (Of course, it's not exactly the hedonistic "now" that appeals to many residents of this City--the parades, festivals and outdoor concerts--the general party atmosphere that seems to permeate the air here sometimes--which must be linked in some subterranean way to the vague feeling of fear that comes with living in earthquake country. But I digress.) And seeing those little post-earthquake cottages, I was reminded of how extremely "now" life would feel, after experiencing such an overwhelming catastrophe, and being stripped of everything--perhaps not one's loved ones, but everything else.

And without one's loved ones? No "now," even--just "Fade to Black." That's probably why San Francisco's feeling like a bit too much of a risk, these days.