Fragility

Yesterday, we were in the dark.

I was at home, composing, when I noticed the coffee heater had suddenly gone off. At first, I thought it was just a blown fuse. But the lights were out. The internet had gone down. Even messages to my wife, who was elsewhere, were barely going through.

A few minutes later, I learned it wasn’t just our building—or even just our city. All of Spain had gone dark. So had Portugal. Parts of France too.

With no official information and communication failing, my wife and I decided to meet at a central point in the city and go together to pick up our daughter from school. It was early, but we didn’t want to wait. We preferred to be together, whatever this was.

When we arrived, we saw we weren’t the only ones. Dozens of parents were already there. The school staff was calm but clearly unsure how to proceed. No one knew what was happening.

The city had changed. Traffic lights were dead, and cars were jammed at intersections in ways I’d never seen before. People poured through the streets—not in panic, but with a strange urgency, as if walking might lead them to answers.

On some corners, small crowds had formed around people with battery-operated radios. That was the only way to figure out something, but even news anchors didn´t know what was happening. Rumors spread faster than facts. Some said it would last a few hours. Others spoke of weeks.

With the cash we had at hand—since card machines were useless—we managed to buy a small radio and a few provisions. We walked back home and turned the dial, searching for some voice in the static. It had been many years since I listened to a radio for real.

Late at night, just before we went to sleep, the lights returned. We heard cheers coming from the surrounding buildings and streets. It felt like a collective exhale. A reminder of how quietly we depend on everything working, all the time.

This morning, the internet came back. Life is slipping back to normal—but the experience lingers.

It reminded me how thin the veil is between the world we take for granted and one where none of our usual tools work. We are deeply wired into systems—power, connectivity, mobility—that give us comfort and freedom, and yet can vanish without warning.

But beyond the inconvenience, what struck me most was how quickly we all realigned: meeting points, backup plans, walking instead of driving, listening instead of scrolling. In a matter of hours, we adapted. Maybe awkwardly, but instinctively.

It made me reflect not just on how dependent we are—but how connected we still are when everything else is stripped away. And that, perhaps, is a kind of power too.

Have a nice day,

Claudio.

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