A broad Scandinavian accent from a young pilot with a firm tone wakes me up, signalling the end of my blissful escape from reality in Gran Canaria on April 28th. I am leaving not only a location but a state of mind that organically banned the rest of the world from my only purpose: pro tempore COO of my personal delusional Nirvana. Effortlessly isolating my persona from TikToks, general news, opinionated friends, cold-blooded clients, and Italians, especially. The top dog of the sky informs my 130-ish fellow travellers of the imminent landing in the coastal town of Alicante.
Upon landing, I observe my fellow travellers, who seem to have underestimated the power of sunscreen, leaving us all resembling a mixed breed of bronze Dalmatians and characters from The Lion King’s cast. The airport is surprisingly uncrowded, and the process of retrieving my luggage is smooth. Karma is rewarding me for my responsible behaviour in the Canary Islands, as I walk out to find no queues for cabs. The driver kindly requests payment in cash due to a malfunctioning POS system, and off we go. Luckily, I always carry cash.
As we drive into the city, I realise I have no internet signal, and I’m completely unaware of the national electricity crisis in Spain. The language barrier further complicates matters, and I find myself at a loss as some significant details are excluded from the conversation, and important aspects omitted. I am perplexed when the cab drops me off in front of a sexy shop below a Ramen place instead of my hotel, The Serawa. Fortunately, I spot the entry and promptly swap the provocative business for my intended accommodation. The dark lobby and concerned Dutch tourists at the reception hint at the severity of the situation, which the receptionist explains with the urgency of a news anchor reporting on a public safety event. After a makeshift check-in on paper, I navigate my way to my room, climbing the emergency stairs with the help of a torch and my iPhone’s flashlight ( apparently not solely to be used during concerts). I manage to briefly connect with my friend Marco, also the reason I’m visiting, and alert everyone with an Instagram story about my predicament. At this point, electric and water outages are affecting most of the country.
Marco Pastori is a dear friend, working as a designer for Zara and currently living in Alicante.
19:30 sharp, my friend appears in a poorly illuminated city with a big smile and simultaneously apologises on behalf of the Spanish Ministry of Light. Despite the challenge, a drink at the waterfront Noray Café Bar and the sunset promenade on the Passeig Esplanada d’Espanya bring a glimmer of hope. As we stroll along, things get real in the end.
Our expectations are dashed as we find the doors of Voltereta Tanzania safari-inspired dining closed. The low-lit cityscape is a chorus of disoriented people in front of closed restaurants, restaurants on the verge of closing, and restaurants that could eventually only serve cold meals, for obvious reasons, not indoors. Cooking at his place is not an option, as electricity is not an option. The streets, shops, buildings, and condos turn dark, and Alicante resembles more a fantasy-based movie set rather than a beachfront, sun-soaked,wave-kissed,azure-shored haven.
Panic does not erupt, even as the blackness becomes palpable. Commercial activities, including bars and supermarkets, continue to close one after another—almost like a perfectly organised strike. If a blackout cloaked an entire city, one could grow weary and possibly afraid. I distinctly feel reassured at the moment, grateful to be in such a safe place. Things could have been worse if I were in Bogotá, I reckon. “Looters” is the least melodic term that comes to mind after the flamenco cantado impromptu at the corner of Plaza Gabriel Miró.
We continue with our quest to obtain any kind of satiety in a panorama painted in darkness with very little clue on what to do or where to go.
We turn left in Calle San Francisco or Calle de las Setas, a street famous for mushroom-like art installations by the artist Sergio Martìnez that may have worked as luck charms in this peculiar context. A very unexpected plot twist comes to our aid as the scene in front of us shifts dramatically into a gastronomic pop-up refuge bathed in soft flickering lights. Some clever guys brightened up their dehor, creating a candlelit setting serving wine, jamón, tapas, tortillas, singing, clapping hands, and stomping feet. They offer whatever they have at the very best they can do.
My phone dies as we order. It is hard to express how special, how surreal, yet beautiful this moment is— the plain simplicity turns the experience into something extraordinary. Don’t we all travel to create memories?
Marco will later comment, quote: “ I could not ask for more”.
On our way back to the hotel, some power surges back into the veins of Alicante. Across hundreds of flats, overhead lights blink awake. Lit up in sequence, many observe in awe from the sidewalks, and applause follows.
From windows, a patchwork of warm yellow glows begins to fill the skyline. Traffic lights resume their rhythm. An audible collective cheer and sense of relief is heard from the balconies. A couple of shopfronts are restored like dominoes, as well as alleys, public transport, and phone chargers. A quiet hum of life returning. It will take more time for Spain to fully recover, as only partially is the electricity reinstated. The cause of the outage is still being discussed today.
