So, there was that earthquake thing last night. I was watching the One Direction documentary when suddenly I felt the familiar sway of my building when an earthquake hits. But unlike the usual baby mini quakes that usually hit Wellington, this one went on for longer and got more shaky. Some books and objet d’art started falling off the top two shelves of my bookcase, which has never happened before.
My first and strongest instinct was to put on some pants. Yes. Because I figured I could deal with going barefoot in only a sportsbra and t-shirt to a refugee camp, but I couldn’t survive without pants. But instead of doing that, I found myself standing in my bedroom doorway. I’m not sure why I did this, but it seemed like I’d decided to leave the room and turned that into the classic earthquake protection spot. Standing there, I thought “I do not want to live in Wellington any more,” which is my standard reptile brain thought in such situations. The shaking stopped and the building slowly swayed its way back to stillness.
On Twitter, Wellington people were saying stuff like “Arrgh! This is the worst earthquake I’ve experience in 30 years living here!”, while Christchurch people were all “Woteva. Harden up, bitches.”
It was easily the most alarming earthquake I’ve experienced in Wellington, but it was nowhere near as shaky or long as the big on in Tokyo, or indeed the two big aftershocks I experienced there. There were no Izakaya bars or Asahi to comfort me this time, but 15 minutes later, Courtenay Place was about as normal as it ever is for a Saturday night.
And the earthquake also, uh, dumped a bunch of my clothes on the floor? My fear has always been that this bookcase would tip over, so I’m glad this is all that happened. This was less disruption than what I came back to in my Tokyo hotel room.