Living the Downtime
It was noon on a sunny late April day when my browser announced that it ran out of internet. I glanced at the dehumidifier - it was down (and that is, of course, how you know that the action of the story takes place in Portugal, where a dehumidifier is a part of a survival kit). I told myself it is just a regular power outage, which happens - our electricity is a fan of an occasional break. I checked the lever that was supposed to be down. But it was up. I considered if we paid bills on time. We did. I glanced at my phone and my mobile data was gone, together with the signal. All connection was down, all technology was down. Something was up.
It did not help that it happened while I was listening to a book on how the Baltic countries create resilient systems for energy and connection, as they know that an attack on their infrastructure is not unlikely - the adversaries aiming to cut off entire populations from being informed, as an act of war. It did not help that at the very same moment a siren started blaring in the background. My imagination went wild.
So I got dressed and walked outside, thinking that it is probably just our house or just our neighbourhood (my fear of war, while present, was reigned in quite efficiently and replaced by much more rational technical theories). Around the corner, a pocket of connection presented itself - not enough to send out messages, but enough to receive them, and to learn that the power is out in the entirety of Portugal and Spain. I tried to think of a place that may have free wifi running on generators, and headed to a nearest supermarket. They indeed had full-on electricity, and, indeed, provided free wifi, which I generally avoid like the plague (or maybe more like flu), but now I ticked all the boxes and started reading the news, giving updates to my family and my partner, and cancelling the plans of the day, as getting to the city center was getting increasingly difficult, with troubled trains and metro, and no way to use any ride-sharing apps. I walked in the supermarket as if it was a local park, first giving updates, then waiting for responses while trying to pick up nutritionally dense food that does not require refrigeration or cooking with heat. I ended up with a bag of avocados and pistachios. Which looked naive compared to the shopping baskets of other people, who were grabbing multiple boxes of candles and canned tuna, 5 liter water canisters, and bags and bags of chocolate. Also, almost everyone carried a bag full of bread, but this is Portugal, so no one can expect anything else.
After standing at the checkout line for a solid half an hour, with a kiddo in front of me playing with sunscreen bottles of three different sizes, pretending they are a family (creative) and a lady with a big shopping cart trying to cut the line in front of me (cheeky), I was frankly kind of done with the supermarket, even though it remained my only connection to the world. I texted my goodbyes and headed back home, which, even though without connection, or maybe especially because of it, felt cosy and safe. Or, at least, much safer than the streets, which now had no functioning traffic lights, with confused pedestrians staring at their phones with the intensity, which could conjure a spark of electricity (though I think it didn't).
At home I used my laptop to charge my phone, and I kept listening to my spooky audiobook on the geopolitics of the Baltic region while making myself a (cold) lunch. Then I finalised a painting that I have not had time to touch for a few weeks. I painted a scene from a 12 year old photo, me sitting on a meadow in the Italian Alps, while Sophia, a little girl I was taking care of, was braiding my hear. Neither of us had internet or electricity in that photo. Neither of us needed it. I had time with my newly cancelled plans clearing up the day, so I read. A book. A fiction book. Like in the old days depicted in the photo. It was a strangely soothing experience, being allowed not to check the messages, being allowed not to work in front of your screen, because it was out of my control. Kids were playing in the parks. People had beers on the street. My friend from Madrid shared a photo with people chatting around the shared light, playing ukuleles and singing - in the otherwise pitch dark street. Unlike my friend, I never seem to end up in these idyllic scenarios, rather finding myself on a sofa with a book. Which is far from the worst setting to find yourself in, I suppose.
A moment of a digital break, of course, does not justify the massive impact of the outage. With people getting stuck on metros and airports, struggling to get emergency services or reach loved ones. Let alone that sense of fear looming at the back of the mind - when will the power be back? Why is it out in the entire countries? What does it mean? And, separately, but importantly - will my yogurt go bad?
At the end of the day, when Marco managed to get home - bringing news from the connected world - we accepted the likely destiny of living without power for another few days. We planned fridge-less meals, read until the bedroom drowned in darkness, and then grabbed a torch to read a few poems from Rilke's collection. The moment we cosied up to have an early sleep, the lights popped back on, the dehumidifier started happily humming again, and soon after our phones filled up with messages, emails, and news stories. While I was glad that we are safe, that the hospitals have electricity and food is not going to waste, I felt a slight pang of regret that I am not staying in the land of silence and poetry. Just a slight one. Otherwise, it felt deeply reassuring to reconnect to this strange world - that was still clueless on why the outage happened 12 hours after its start.
The day after the country was recovering, and everyone I encountered had their downtime story, many relating to my pang of regret. Economic damage and geopolitical questions aside, this forced pause provided a sense of spaciousness, a distant recollection of delicious silence approaching boredom - but never quite reaching it. This feeling seemed like a dream - familiar yet long forgotten. A sense of boredom efficiently pushed away by phones, laptops and other technological joys. Pushing away a moment of calm, a moment of insight, a moment of rest, that may pretend to look like boredom, but never quite become it. As long as curiosity is in sight.
