It began at 12:13 with a flicker. The lights in the staffroom blinked off, then just as politely, back on. Odd.
Classroom to Chaos
Thirty minutes later, mid-class with thirty eight-year-olds, the power cut out again. Lights, the whiteboard, internet. Gone.
At first, I assumed it was just our classroom. Maybe the school? But as we changed class, another teacher came in, whispering like she was delivering state secrets:
“It’s all of Spain and Portugal.”
Well. That’s… larger than expected.
The rumour mill exploded: Germany’s down too. Maybe Ireland. Brazil? “Don’t drink tap water,” someone said. “Cash only,” warned another. Parents turned up early to collect their children and queues formed outside supermarkets and tobacco shops.
As we hurried between classes, arts and crafts awaiting us, my teacher leaned in, eyes wide: “Madrid has collapsed.”
Her sister works in parliament, so naturally, she was now the most reliable source in a 500-kilometre radius.
Soon, I was painting concentric circles in blue and green with giggling children, while trying to refresh the news on a phone that had already given up. Group chats spiralled into minor hysteria. I was grateful to be in a small-ish city of 300,000. If this was the calm, I didn’t want to imagine the storm.
Collective Confusion
Leaving school, my first sight was of supermarket staff sitting solemnly behind the now-useless automatic doors.
My first thought: They’re trapped.
My second thought: They’re guarding against looters.
A quick turn down the road brought the oil refinery into view. Great plumes of black smoke in a postcard-blue sky. It was 28 degrees, a Spanish summer’s day, and the world was slipping quietly off its axis.
Somehow, life didn’t stop. It staggered on, awkwardly, and absurdly. The cafés were still serving essentials: cervezas. People queued outside ATMs. Some shops were still open, with staff guarding the door like nightclub bouncers. I finally got through to my parents: “I’m fine, but Spain has no power.” They laughed nervously. Then the call dropped. It would be eleven hours before I could reassure them of my safety again.
Outside the flat, I ran into my housemate, Valentina. She thought it was just our flat. Then her boyfriend, across the city, texted, informing her it was nationwide. Her phone signal dropped before she could reply.
We stared at our kitchen cupboards like they were about to answer questions. No water. Sufficient dry goods. Time to find water.
Community, Calm and Kindness
The queue outside the shop looked tense, but inside it was more like… a cooperative apocalypse. People took what they needed, and passed supplies down dark aisles. The sense of community was precious. We grabbed essentials, and tried to buy fresh tomatoes but without a functioning electric scale they were forbidden fruit.
Back home, our other housemate, Cris, had emerged from his siesta. He blinked at our armfuls of supplies, flicked the dead light switch, shook his head, and went to the bathroom.
I ate three yogurts on the spot before they could warm into soup.
We filled him in when he reemerged. His reaction?
“Let’s go to the beach.”
Everyone else in the city seemed to have the same idea. No phone signal meant no news, so we gossiped our way through an afternoon of sun, sand, and speculation. But whilst we lay on the sand, it was hard to forget the chaos. People were trapped in lifts, trains ground to a halt between stations, and emergency responders worked overtime to assist those stranded.
We navigated home past DIY traffic systems, police on major roads, polite hand waves on smaller ones. It felt less like a dystopia and more like a very intense Sunday in Spain, when shops are closed anyway.
Rumours and Radio
Our fourth housemate finally arrived home after spending the entire day sitting on the pavement outside her office, where her boss insisted,
“Power will be back any minute.”
She brought new rumours:
“A prophecy said that Pope Francis was the last one. He died, and now the world is ending.”
Brilliant.
Dinner was a greatest hits of things that don’t need cooking: peanut butter sandwiches, olives, and carrots. Not terrible. But I eyed the tins nervously, wondering how long they would need to last.
Then Cris asked, “Does the radio still work?” Genius.
I pulled out my trusty Roberts, and we huddled around it like the blackout version of a campfire. We waited until 11pm for the president to address the nation.
“Good afternoon,” he began.
Ah, Spain.
He began by thanking frontline workers in hospitals and across emergency services for working overtime to help rescue those stranded across the country without power or communication. He continued by assuring listeners that La Red Eléctrica (Spain’s national electrical provider) and the governments across Spain and its autonomous communities were working together through the night with the utmost efforts to restore power across the country by the end of Tuesday. Fortunately, this was possible.
As night fell, the stars appeared and the smell from the refinery thickened. We leaned out the window and listened to impromptu street parties. The kind that only happens when no one has work tomorrow and everyone is slightly terrified.
The main worry once the sun went down, was safety. No streetlights. No alarms. No CCTV. Across the peninsula, 30,000 police and military personnel were deployed to protect the streets. So, with candles, cards, and each other, we passed the evening better than we had any right to. That night, for the first time since moving in together, we just… hung out. No distractions. No plans.
And secretly? I loved it.
Reflections on a Powerless World
It felt like that Friends episode, “The One with the Blackout” (Series 1, Episode 7). Except this wasn’t just New York. It was the entire Iberian Peninsula. And unlike the 1990s, we don’t have landlines, candles, or a neighbour who plays the guitar. Just a crying baby upstairs, and the realisation that our lives depend on electricity.
No power meant no clean water, no Wi-Fi, no fridge. Just a country slowly realising everything, literally everything, is electric. If nothing else, those hours were a sharp reminder of how much we rely on technology, and how little we think about that dependence until it’s stripped away.
Electricity isn’t just comfort; it’s communication, sanitation, safety, and connection. Like the early days of Covid-19, it revealed how quickly life can shift, and how unprepared we often are. Emergencies don’t wait, which is why it pays to be ready: radios, bottled water, tinned food and cash. Especially cash. As ATMs and card payments became unavailable, I stared at my empty purse. Luckily, my housemate had some. Coming from the UK, where cash has all but vanished, I rarely carry any. That convenience is a real weakness in a blackout. By contrast, countries like Spain still use both cash and card, offering more resilience when digital systems go down. In the UK, that kind of outage could bring everyday transactions to a halt, leaving even the well-off vulnerable.
The blackout may have lasted only fourteen hours, but the questions it raised should last much longer.
Words by Tara Russell
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