After a record-breaking wet spring, Lisbon is finally drying out. This month, my love letter to you will return to its original intent — to reflect on life in Lisbon.
By now most of you know that a massive electricity blackout on April 28 pitched all of Spain and Portugal, and parts of France, into chaos.
Underground metro trains stopped. ATM machines seized up. Traffic lights, which in Portugal are mostly just suggestions, threw traffic into even deeper turmoil than usual.
I was just a few steps from the metro entrance, having left our place to join a friend for lunch. We had experienced a power outage in our building but I figured it was localized to our building since they’re doing work on a broken elevator. So off I trotted down the stairs to join my friend.
As I was walking, I got a text from Greg with a news report that all of Spain had lost power. I felt the pit of my stomach turn, as I recalled the unfolding horror of September 11, 2021. In an instant, I went back to the early dismissal of anything more serious, the trickle of news that showed a historic and sinister news event in real time. My immediate thought turned to the possibility that it was an attack.
I have mentioned my tendency toward catastrophic thinking, right?
I stopped a gentleman coming out of his building and asked if they had power. He said to me, in Portuguese, “The whole country is out, including ‘multibanco,’” referring to the national banking system that forms the backbone of all ATMs and card purchases.
I called my friend and we shared what we knew, which was not much. Her employer had instructed them to turn off and unplug computers. People were streaming out of the darkened metro stop, stepping into the sunshine in a daze.
I started to walk home, when I lost my mobile phone signal.
We have a battery back-up on our Internet router, so we had internet connectivity for a few more hours as we monitored European news outlets — the American news media was characteristically flat-footed and didn’t mention anything until hours later.
I made a sandwich — no microwave, oven, or cooktop — and took to scrolling. I was reading a news story that local authorities had told people not to go to the airport, when we ran out of internet. It was 2:00 in the afternoon and our information flow ceased.
We were effectively cut off from the din of modern conveniences and distractions. But this is not going to be a self-congratulatory letter — much like the posts that populated social media the next day — extolling “how I survived five hours with social media.”
Millions of people in war torn countries have suffered without electricity, running water, money, medicine, and other basics for survival for months (Gaza) or years (Ukraine).
I was not suffering. I was barely inconvenienced.
I could not check in on local friends, or communicate back to friends or family in the U.S., should the national media ever get around to covering this.
I settled into a chair on our veranda and started into a novel. A book. Made of paper. This tableau was a poster for a privileged life.
The city grew quiet. Construction stopped. The din of cars was reduced. After a while, I realized it had been a while since I’d seen or heard airplanes. We have a view of incoming commercial jets approaching the airport every five minutes. I waited, scanning the sky. Nothing. Another eerie reminder of 9-11 when the FAA shut down all airspace over the United States.
I had no idea what was happening “out there,” and settled into focusing on what I did know: I was comfortable. I had enough ingredients to cobble together a salad for dinner. We were well-stocked on wine. I was not exactly in a meditative state, but an intentional awareness of “here and now” that is rare.
People in our condo complex were relaxing on their verandas, some were milling around the courtyard chatting while their dogs played. Soon the sun descended beyond the horizon and I set out candles around the house. I could see the similar glow of candlelight through other windows.
By 9:30 pm, we started to see some buildings light up, and by 10:00 pm we had both electricity and the internet. I responded to texts and messages that had accumulated from friends, here and the U.S., who were checking in to see how we were.
Life was back to normal.
I remember during COVID, when our lives were completely disrupted from our routines. Wise people asked, “what parts of ‘normal’ are you happy to leave behind?”
This was another opportunity to consider that question.
What have you stopped noticing?