The day Spain went dark, I found myself navigating the city without power, without metro, and with barely any phone signal. What could have been stressful turned into an unexpected urban adventure, a solo walk through bustling streets, crowded buses and a city that suddenly felt both eerie and alive.
Forgotten Wallet, Coffee, and Reflection
I was on my way to Quintana, heading to my studio on my usual route, walking up to La Latina metro. Just as I got there, I realized I’d forgotten my wallet. So I marched back to my apartment, grabbed it, kissed John goodbye, and set out again. I was writing something for a future Substack post on my phone, totally immersed. I stopped at my usual café for a café con leche and a slice of bizcocho de albaricoque. Still writing on my phone, I started tearing up, remembering how I used to write poetry as a teenager, part of a community of writers and mentors.
Entering the Studio and the Lights Go Out
By the time I got to the studio, it was close to noon. The place was quiet, just the cleaning lady scrubbing the sink. I grabbed my laptop and set it up. The battery’s terrible, so I plugged it in right away. I touched the pages of my visual journals, laid out across my desk, full of dried layers of abstract collages made from marbled paper. Around 12:30, the lights clicked off. The internet stopped working. I checked my phone, but it had no signal. Wait, what? I was alone in this basement. No one else had come in.
I packed up, opened the fuse box, everything looked fine, and decided to leave. My phone was down to 20%. I locked up the gate and crossed the street to the alimentación. “No hay luz,” the guy said. I looked around the block. Nothing was working.
Navigating a City Without Power
I headed to Calle de Alcalá, the main drag which is full of pastelerías, restaurants, shoe stores and a mini Decathlon, but the stores were dark, workers standing around outside.
Traffic was piling up, buses and cars trying to move with no traffic lights. I checked Quintana metro. It was dark, too. People were emerging from the tunnels like it was a war zone.
Still no coverage. I started to panic. I didn’t know how to get home without the metro. Turns out, walking from Quintana to my place takes an hour and forty-five minutes. And I’m hopeless with directions. I rely on my phone for everything.
Usually, it’s an easy trip from La Latina to Quintana. If I want a longer walk, I get off at Ópera or sometimes Chueca. But today? No metro, no power, no data.
Finding My Way Home
Buses were running, but everyone was crowded at the stops. I got on the 113, hoping it would take me toward Ventas or somewhere closer to the center. GPS was my only guide. I tracked the blue dot and followed it. At some point, I impulsively got off the bus, thinking maybe another metro line might be working. But that was wishful thinking. I overheard people saying the same thing was happening in Portugal and France. A blackout across Spain and Portugal? It felt unreal.
After taking a few breaths, I checked Maps again. If I followed the blue dot, I’d eventually get to Retiro. I don’t live that close to Retiro, but from there, I knew my way home. So I kept walking. I passed a bus stop that wasn’t crowded. One bus went to Atocha, the other to Goya. The 32 bus came first, and I got on without thinking twice. Today wasn’t the day to overanalyze. I got a seat near the front, took a break.
When I got off, I walked toward Calle de O’Donnell. The streets were full of people, the police directing traffic. I passed Parque del Retiro, closed grocery stores, and tourists mixed in with locals saying, “qué raro.”
I checked my phone which was at 18% battery. The sky was bright, but the city felt surreal. I tucked my phone away and walked with purpose. Then it buzzed. Coverage? A few WhatsApp messages came in. My friend Adrienne, who lives near Lisbon, asked if I was affected too. I fired off a quick reply, sent some Slack messages to the creative director I freelance with.
Madrid’s Resilience and Spirit
The day of the Apagón felt like the world was ending. On the flip side, people were just out and about, having beers and tortilla de patatas. I remembered to breathe. There wasn’t much else to do. I saw that cash was king, that people were hailing taxis.
I checked my pockets for a bit of change and drummed up enough to buy a bag of Sweet Chili Doritos and a passionfruit Nestea.
I finally made it home, my right foot aching. I tore into my snacks. John heated up his mom’s leftover rabbit paella. I scarfed it down and was still hungry, so I poached a fresh egg from the chickens his parents keep in Berrocales and had toast from Obrador de San Francisco, our favorite bakery.
From our balcony, we had an amazing view of Parque de la Cornisa, the lawn was full of people picnicking, relaxing outside, enjoying the sun.
We had stories to tell. It felt strange to be so disconnected, to not know what was going on. Later, I curled up with a pile of books and ended up napping. During my nap, John’s brother Christian showed up with Leo, the dog. He shouted from the street, and John heard him from our balcony. It was sweet, seeing them.
It was also a little eerie not being able to reach anyone. I hoped people were okay. I was just glad to be home. And weirdly, John had taken out cash that morning—he never does. So we went to a nearby alimentación and bought Chocobom cookies, Cokes, and an onion to make tortilla española. We still had fish from the mercado, so we were set. Later that night, I sat on the balcony watching the skyline.
Around 11:30, the lights came back on. We heard clapping and cheers from the buildings. The park across the street lit up. It was like all of Spain let out a collective breath.
Power, data, normalcy, it was all back. But for a few hours, it was just me and my thoughts. I read, people-watched, enjoyed the flowers John planted. I used our solar jar light from Ikea and let the quiet sink in. That moment wasn’t caught on camera, but it’s stored in my mind and in a hastily written journal entry.
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