I moved away from San Francisco about a year before the Loma Prieta earthquake. Granted, we had the occasional jolt at our new home in Los Angeles, but nothing sufficiently destructive or alarming to get people to glance up from the latest issue of Variety much less gather in the streets. And while I was happy to have escaped the hassles of power disruptions and shattered glass, I was also a bit envious of my friends in the Bay Area who called with tales of what they had experienced and what others had endured. These feelings didn’t stem from some latent death wish or craving for excitement; rather, they were a twinge of longing for a shared experience powerful enough to create common cause and lifelong bonds. These friends had been through something, however peripherally, and, for a while at least, they were drawn closer to the strangers who populated the streets around them. Anyone who has been through an extended blackout knows how much friendlier a supermarket can become when everyone is filling their carts with bottled water and batteries and nonperishable food items. The shared hardship (however slight) gives people a sense of connection absent from regular store visits.
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