Scossa

I've just managed to blow-dry my hair and am gathering a few last things before leaving for work when a big truck drives by my apartment building, rattling the windows.

Before they can stop, a high-speed frecciarossa train goes down the Via Emilia...

Just kidding. (No trains go down the Via Emilia, and while trucks make themselves felt when they go by, they usually do not actually rattle the windows.)

No, an earthquake has come to Reggio Emilia.

Never having felt one before, it takes me a few heart-stopping seconds to figure out what it is, and another few to figure out what to do: run outside! no, would probably fall down the stairs. hide under the bed? no, full of suitcases under there, and doesn't seem that sturdy anyway. equally, the kitchen table is pretty small and rickety looking. doorways, then? saw that in a movie once.

And so I stand in the doorway of my bedroom while my building shakes back and forth, the old windows rattle loudly, and I wonder how long it's going to last.

I suppose it doesn't last that long, really - under a minute for sure, but certainly among the longest minutes of my life thus far.

I call my boss, the first responsible adult that comes to mind and also the last person in my recent calls log, as soon as the house is standing still enough for me to retrieve my phone. I sputter into the phone for a bit, and she mentions that earthquakes are not typically dangerous in this region.

Yeah. Except that they possibly have the capacity to induce heart failure in previously healthy 25-year-olds, but whatever.

I finish dressing and head to work, passing one of the local high schools on my way. It has evidently been evacuated, and all of the children have crossed the street so as not to be standing in the shadow of their five-story high school. They are now standing in the shadow of the equally large municipal theater. This seems like dubious logic to me, but whatever.

I am always searching for good conversation topics in my first lesson on Wednesdays, but today I am in luck:

"Did you feel the terremoto?" one of my five students asks me, grinning.

"Earthquake," I correct automatically before starting to splutter about it again. I ask them for advice about what exactly one is supposed to do in the case of an earthquake. (Run down three flights of stairs to get outside? Under a table? Doorway?) There is a slight difference of opinion. Two votes for "run outside asap" because it's the official company protocol; three votes for "stay at your desk and continue working unless the building is actively collapsing" because... well. Unofficial company protocol, I guess.

Hm. Not very helpful. We discuss the relative merits of this plan as it pertains to me in my house rather than them at their all-important desks, and it is concluded that I should avoid running down the stairs, but rather hide under a table in my apartment.

I reflect that all of my tables are from Ikea, and thus of dubious strength. Particularly in the context of the fourth floor collapsing on them.

Most other students throughout the rest of the week are in the "run outside if you possibly can" camp, recommending that I keep my keys, phone, and shoes near the door. Except for one person who tells me that I should not under any circumstances go on the stairs, because they are less stable. So we're back to the Ikea tables.

My last student of the week has the best news so far.

"No, no, your house won't collapse," he reassures me in his best paternal tone. "Houses in this region are built to be safe even in earthquakes." He spends some time discussing the various architectural precautions that were taken in the building of his particular place of work. At the end of this discourse, though, he is apparently in doubt of something:

"Wait... where do you live, again?"

I describe the location of my house. He is a native Reggiano and thus knows every inch of the city, including the exact street number of my house. A cheeky grin spreads across his face.

"Okay, your house... maybe collapse," he concedes.

I narrow my eyes at him and torture him with the present perfect for the remaining forty minutes of the lesson. As he is leaving:

"Straniera," he tells me seriously, "your house probably not collapse." We're back to reassuringly paternal. "But, if it does... you call me. I help you. Ok?" Cheeky grin.

Don't you wish you had my job?