Electrical Blackout in Spain

COVID Round 2?

*Above video: When we THOUGHT we had light back everywhere. (4/28/25, 7:57pm.) [I only caught the tail end of the eruption of joy]

News we read in intermittent moments of service as we walked

Our walk through Plaza Mayor, around 7pm

~

The day started out with a suicide.

Not exactly a great way to start the day.

Or, to be more precise, the day (Monday, April 28, 2025) started out with the news of a suicide. Specifically, we were told by the landlord that our rather youngish, kind, non-English-speaking apartment building concierge had suddenly died a day or two prior.

We were shocked.

We’d spoken with this thoughtful man several times in our basic, broken Spanish about the apartment and other things. He once called us over to his desk which sat in the entrance to the building and, smiling, handed us an Amazon package which had been delivered when we hadn’t been home. We took the package gratefully and thanked him. Perhaps he was in his mid-fifties. He seemed happy, healthy and normal.

We still don’t know what happened. We found out only later in the day that it was in fact a suicide, likely by hanging. It was only then that we recalled a couple days ago being on the rooftop of the fancy hotel a block from our place, seeing the epic 360-degree views, and spotting a gaggle of uniformed police on top of the roof of our building. Because cops here seem to be everywhere at all times all at once—surely one of the reasons for the very low crime rate—we didn’t think much of it. But we later understood why they were there. Our concierge.

~

But this was only how the morning began.

A little later that morning I was lying on the couch messing around on Substack—as one is wont to do—with the bright, glorious sun beaming through the windows at my face, warming me, when I suddenly lost internet service. We have Wi-fi in the apartment, so this was odd. But when I checked my settings I saw I no longer was connected. Huh, I thought.

I realized then that the living room, which I was in, was unlit. I walked near the front door of the apartment where the light switches were. When I flipped them on and off, nothing happened. We’d lost electricity.

My first thought was: Did we somehow manage to not pay the bill?

We also, I should add, had a very important 3:20pm (it was around 11am now) appointment with the Padron to register in the Madrid census so that we were “legitimate” with the city and authorities as new residents. We had not been looking forward to this appointment—read about our Herculean, Kafkian effort just to get to Spain in the first place—but it was a necessary part of the visa process.

But we’d lost power.

We had to print several documents for the appointment, including our rental contract. By the time we were out the door—after showers and eating etc—it was about 1pm. It was another gorgeous, hot day. We might have been in Southern California if you only looked at the weather. The past week or so had been stunning.

People were out and about everywhere. There was a slightly frantic vibe in the streets. We walked to a printing place I’d located on Apple Maps but we couldn’t find it. Then Britney recalled another printing place and, since we still had no internet (even with roaming on using my new Spanish line re an eSim) she led us there, more or less remembering how to get there.

But when we arrived—after taking endless curving narrow cobblestone streets, trash strangely everywhere, graffiti covering almost every inch of wall space, as if we’d suddenly entered some sketchy part of the Bronx—the place was closed. The woman who owned the place leaned against the wall outside her place. She didn’t speak much English but she explained that the power was out. We nodded. We started to wonder if we’d make that appointment.

That soon became the least of our concerns.

People were omnipresent on the streets. Everyone seemed to be on their phone. Businesses were closed or closing for the day. It was Monday so this was of course strange. Then a young man in his late twenties, maybe thirty, walked over to us and asked if we were getting internet service. I said no. He was tall and thin with a little dog on a leash and his eyes popped open like bug-eyes and he explained that the power was out in the whole country—all of Spain—as well as in much of Portugal and parts of France. He explained that Red Electrica was the main electric power source in Spain and said this never happens and it was extremely strange and also frightening and explained something about how if it was going on in Paris as well he’d feel better because it would mean that it was a larger phenomenon and it was all connected, but if it wasn’t occurring in Paris he was more concerned.

I suddenly got taken back psychologically to the early first days of COVID, living in East Harlem, when everything shut down and we knew nothing and it was fucking terrifying. (Read the memoir about that here, including free prologue and first chapter.)

A wave of fear pulsed through me.

I realized this was a thing. A serious, mysterious “thing.” It wasn’t just us. It wasn’t just Madrid. It wasn’t even just Spain.

We talked to the guy for maybe 15, 20 minutes and then walked off. We began to understand that we wouldn’t do the appointment: Surely the place was closed now and inoperative sans electricity, and we couldn’t print the documents anyway for the same reason.

I concentrated on the people walking all around us. Most were smiling, most were young, many were drinking already. People seemed for the most part happy and relaxed. Yet there was still a slight tension hovering in the air.

Britney was worried. We’d already heard word of a possible “cyber attack.” Could it be Putin, flexing his might, showing the world what he could do if he wanted to? I don’t have a conspiratorial mind—thank you, Dad—and I tend to believe that most strange things occur from basic error, malfunction, etc. (The simplest reason is usually the true one.) But, even the media, when I spottily here and there finally did get roaming internet, admitted that a cyber attack was possible.

But in emergencies I generally remain calm and rational.

Nowhere could take cards, of course, due to the loss of electricity, but we found a pizza joint mostly empty which was still cooking (without electricity) and was taking cash. We ordered two Margarita pizzas and Calzone along with a glass of red wine for Britney and a Coke for me. We sat down and ate the food and drank and watched the people walking by outside, wondering what was going to happen and what we were going to do.

COVID in NYC around mid-March, 2020, again ran through my mind, the fear and panic and the uncertainty of those early days, not knowing how bad it would get, not knowing what would happen, living in a dangerous neighborhood, 3,000 miles away from any family, suddenly cut off from everyone and everything. I remembered the terrible, what-felt-like-dying panic attack (my first) which I’d had in my apartment early on. I’d called my mom, telling her I was going to die. (I thought it was a COVID stroke, which had been just then killing younger people under 40.)

~

Back at the apartment we relaxed. I texted our Spanish contact who we’d paid to help us with the Padron and TIE process. He wasn’t’ receiving our texts. Lights were still not on in the building. We weren’t getting internet. Britney was getting more and more worried and upset. The worst part, for her, was being cutoff from any contact with family. We sat in the uncomfortable feeling of not knowing. Were we under attack? Was it a basic malfunction? Why didn’t the government or the media know what happened? Why hadn’t Spain’s Prime Minister or President said anything publicly yet?

Britney went down the hall to our bedroom and stayed in there. I passed out on the couch with the bright sun once more assaulting my face beautifully.

~

When I woke up it was later in the afternoon.

I checked my phone. No service. The lights still did not work. The battery charger we had had died and that meant our phones would to. I had about 70% charge left. We couldn’t contact our families, friends, or anyone. Nothing was going through. We’d called our contact and he hadn’t been able to pick up.

We gathered ourselves, chugged some water, worried about food (all the markets and restaurants were closed) and our dying phones and our lack of communication with the outside world in a foreign country. And then we went outside.

Downstairs we encountered a new concierge. A thicker, darker-skinned man who spoke no English. He had short dark wavy hair and kind, serious brown eyes. But there was another man down there speaking to the new concierge, a Spaniard in his twenties, tall and thin and with handsome features and thin lips. When we tried to speak to the concierge in English this young man spoke to us in our language. He spoke good English with a thick accent. His name was Julio, he said. His good friend lived in an apartment in our building on the first floor. He and his other sister worked for a family business and he’d been here visiting; he planned to go home tomorrow, to a small town about four hours south of Madrid.

We talked with him for probably half an hour.

He said this had never happened before in Spain, that it was extremely odd, that it was scary. He thought “100%” that it was a cyber attack by Putin, using Europe as an example of what he could make happen. I liked Julio. He was nice and friendly and helpful…but I found his idea a little hard to believe and conspiratorial. Britney by now was terrified and going down mental rabbit-holes that could not take her anywhere good.

I thought of my mom escaping the Ojai wildfires in 2018, the terror she experienced, the fear, the uncertainty, being trapped in the small town by the mountains with only two roads out, one of which was then impassable. Worst case scenarios flitted through my mind. If only we could get the damn internet! If only the media or the government knew what was happening and why!

Julio told us about a Chinese market around the corner from our building that was open. He went upstairs real quick, changed and came back down and we three walked around the corner to the store. The Chinese owner and his wife used flashlights and had candles to partially light the store. They took only cash, of course. It was semi-dark and creepy. A vaguely apocalyptic sensation crept like an icy finger slowly up my spine. (Again, like early COVID.)

We walked out together. We’d bought candles and a lighter. We still had extra pizza in boxes for food. We were good on water, of course. We had dying phones and no internet but we’d be ok.

~

Britney and I wandered aimlessly along Gran Via. It could almost have been any other ordinary day. Smiling tourists; cops everywhere; cars, buses and taxis flying by. The only thing that gave it away was the fact that most businesses were closed and shuttered. Yet there were still seas of people.

In a nearby plaza, after 15 minutes of walking—and after me asking a cop if they knew anything about the power outage: “We know nothing!”—we were both able to get service. We stopped and Britney called her mom. Emotional, she exploded into tears when she finally got through. We hadn’t been able to contact anyone for most of the day. It felt like a lifeline. Meanwhile I Googled the power outage. It said what we already knew: Spain, Portugal and parts of France had lost power. No clue why. One site said it was due to “extreme weather.” But most said they had no idea and that it could be a cyber attack but the authorities encouraged people to not jump to conclusions.

No solace there.

Britney got off the phone after 10 minutes—her mom had been following the story back in the States—and we continued to wander. I tried to reassure Britney, hugging her, kissing her, rubbing her neck, and reminding her that we were outside, with other people, no one else seemed afraid, there were cops around, we had food and water and shelter, and whatever happened was most likely temporary and explainable. The power, I assured her, would come back on soon. I felt confident, if a little scared myself. How could I not be? Were we back in the States it would be different.

We found an outdoor café and sat. Today had been literally the one day we magically had cash, because we planned to deposit it into our new Spanish bank account. We never had cash, usually. A weird, unlikely stroke of luck. The waiter came out and explained that only a handful of items were still being made. We ordered a Spanish classic: French fries with cheese, fried eggs and ham. I had a coke and Britney more wine. Cops on horses trudged by along the cobblestone. Clusters of men stood along the closed storefronts, yapping. Locals stood on their balconies watching us down below. A huge trail of horse poop sat not far from us on the cobblestone. Tourists and locals ate outside alongside us at their little tables. We relaxed and ate and drank, wondering what would happen next.

~

After that we wandered through Plaza Mayor. A few restaurants were still open but they weren’t serving new customers anymore. Several were closed already. There were people everywhere. Locals laid outside their balconies way up there, shirtless and sunning themselves, a few young men who looked like Abercrombie and Fitch models.

We slowly circled our way around to familiar territory: the eastern edge of the Royal Palace/Plaza Espana/Plaza Oriente, where we’d so far spent the most time since moving into the new apartment in the Universidad neighborhood two weeks ago. We encountered the same South American food huts in Plaza Espana that’d been there since Friday. We ate the same Mexican food (delicious). We chatted with some traveling Brazilians, two dudes: One was very worried and the other was like me. He smiled. Cops sat around on horses. More poop trails in their wake. Everyone seemed young and happy and half-drunk. Music played in the background, some kind of trance thing. A drunken woman (skinny as a stick, perhaps early thirties, frizzy wild hair) bent all the way over backwards on the sloping grass near where we ate on a bench—she bent upside-down from a sitting position—saying that she wanted another “Mojito.”

Suddenly at a certain point the lights of one food-hut turned on. Everyone cheered loudly and wildly. We saw lights going on the RIU Hotel across Gran Via. Let there be light!!! All hail La Luz! We were thrilled. I caught the end of the joy on my phone in a brief video.

But when we left and walked back home, we entered our building again in darkness. Julio happened to be walking out as we walked in. He was with his friend who lived in our building and his sister, also visiting. We all chatted for a few minutes. The sister claimed it was now also Italy and Germany who’d lost power, but we hadn’t seen or heard that. Julio explained we still hadn’t gained any power back in our building. We’d checked again while eating and had internet for a little and discovered that not much had changed; still no one knew what had happened or why; they predicted 6-10 hours before the electricity returned (said an article at 4pm); and Spain’s President was encouraging people to stay home and use the internet as little as possible. We’d learned of people caught in elevators, in trains in tunnels, at airports: Mass hysteria and panic. Traffic jams and crashes due to the traffic lights being out. Chaos.

Back in our apartment, around 8pm now, we sat on the couch and waited for dark. Britney set up the candles around the living room. I found my backpacking headlamp I'd thankfully brought from the States. The cats were happy. We were set for the night. We talked and waited as it grew darker and darker outside, and therefore inside. The RIU must have had generators because their lights worked. We heard confused, loud voices all around us throughout the building, from inside and outside. We’d chatted with our next door neighbor, Carmen, who spoke some basic English, and some other neighbors. No one knew what was happening. Some had radios and got info that way.

Around 10pm we slid into bed. My phone was down to 20%. Everything was dark minus Britney’s battery-charged mini lamp and my headlamp. I continued reading Richard Wright’s 1945 classic, Black Boy. (So many thoughts on this book already. Expect a book review to come.) Britney passed out quickly. I stayed up reading. It was hot in the room. No fan because of the power. The window was partially open. It grew darker and quieter outside. Some frantic Spanish voices encircled us for a little. Someone screamed. Sirens had been wailing constantly all day (another COVID similarity) and they were finally starting to wind down. I still heard men guiding traffic on Gran Via via whistles.

I think it was close to midnight, deep into Black Boy, when suddenly the ceiling light in our bedroom turned on. Let there be light!!! For real this time. I shook Britney half awake, which she did not appreciate, and I told her what happened. She kept sleeping. I couldn’t believe it. I jumped up and flipped lights on everywhere, just to make sure. The bedroom. The hallway. The bathrooms. The living room. Power was finally back on. I was connected to the internet. I Googled “Madrid Power Outage.” Same info. No one knew what had happened, or rather WHY it had happened. But the power had gradually been turning back on around Spain and in sections of Madrid. It was now our turn.

Thank God. I smiled. I closed my book. I lay there awake in darkness for a while, felt incredibly grateful—if still concerned about what in the hell had actually happened—and fell asleep.

As of today, right now, at 12:54pm, 4/29/2025, the media and government still say they have no idea what happened. They don’t “think” it was a cyber attack. But they do not know.

Either way. We got through it.

This time.