5.6 Earthquake Doesn't Impress Tangueras

Of all the joys of living in San Francisco, one of the greatest is getting to sway in our earthquakes. It's not that they happen every month, but they hit often enough that you get used to them after awhile. Just like my first girfriend (Ellen, sixth grade, Mystic, CT), my first Czech beer (Pilsner Urquell, Hotel Atrium bar, July, '92), and my first time meeting my 3-month old nephew (Caimin, Savannah, GA airport), I'll always remember the excitement of my first earthquake. It struck only two weeks after I had moved here from Prague. It was a 3.something, so pretty small, but it felt like an 8.0 because it was my first. But the last one a few months ago was a 5.6 and it hit while I was driving to a milonga for my tango fix. I was sitting at a red light when suddenly my car started to buck so much I felt like I was riding a Texas bull. I thought at first my engine was giving out, but then I realized it was an earthquake. Like any other self-respecting San Franciscan, though, I don't break for such tiny shake & bakes, so, I kept driving just like nearly everyone around me. Everyone, that is, except for one car that pulled over. I knew they must be out-of-towners and, sure enough, they had Kansas plates. Funny thing about our brothers from Kansas--they don't like it when the earth starts rocking, but they don't bat an eye at a tornado. I'll take an earthquake over a twister any day. Anyway, I made it to my milonga on time & during my first tango asked my friend if she had felt the trembler. She had, but she was paying a lot more attention to her backward ochos than some quake. You gotta love San Franciscan tangueras--they've got their priorities right.

Word.