We are walking the Camino de Santiago when the power goes out in Spain.

At first, we do not know the power is out, of course. The only thing we notice is that our phones have quit working. Which is not unusual on the Camino. Out here, your American-carrier phone service only works on days of the week beginning with R.

When we arrive in the hamlet of Carrión de los Condes, however, we realize something is indeed wrong. Our phones are in emergency mode, and we cannot pull up maps to find our hostel.

And so, we wander the serpentine route into town proper, where it seems all the locals are hanging out, outside their respective buildings.

Kids play fútbol in the street. People sit on the curbs, having animated conversations over midday wine. People play cards on tables outside cafés. No lights anywhere. And—here is the really weird part—not a single person playing on their phone.

I find a small older man, sitting on the stoop of his townhouse, sipping what looks like coffee from a thimble-glass.

“Excuse me, sir,” I ask. “Is there truly a nationwide power outage?” 

“Si,” he replies.

“In all the country of Spain?”

“Si.”

“Heavens. You’re serious?”

“Si.”

“Do you happen to know the reason for the outage, or how long this will last?”

He shrugs.

“Has your power been off all day?”

“Si.”

“Would you mind, terribly, giving me some directions?”

He slowly points to a tiny elderly woman who is watering a flower box.

“Is that your wife?” I ask.

“Si.”

“What’s her name?”

“Sue.”

The wife tells me that her radio reported an “apogo de energía en todo España” (a nationwide power outage). Nobody has any more information than this, she says, as she waters the begonias. And nobody in Carrión de los Condes really seems to care. She give directions to our hostel, and does not seem in the least bit worried.

Which is astounding to me. I grew up in Florida. During hurricane seasons, our power went out all the time. We experienced mass outages that lasted for weeks on end. And I can tell you this: Americans handle an outage with a VERY different attitude.

In America, we tend to freak out. The first thing we do is raid supermarkets for bread, milk, and Clorox. I have never known why Americans are so obsessed with bleach during a hurricane. What do we DO with all that bleach?

Either way, a power outage is normally a tense time for Americans. Usually, we are constantly listening to updates on battery-powered radios, grilling all the meat in our fridges, and there is usually an anxious “vibe” in the air that feels vaguely reminiscent of a Soviet invasion.

But in the far flung regions of rural Spain, you wouldn’t even know the power is off at all. It’s siesta-thirty, and everybody has a strong wine buzz going.

We visit a market. The employees are standing on the street. They tell us it to use flashlights to shop in the store.

My wife and I buy canned food for supper and a fresh baguette. We have no means of cooking since our hostel kitchen is electric.

For supper, we sit around a table, drinking warm beer, eating cold alubias and pan, gazing out an open window overlooking the stone streets of Carrión. Children are playing below. We are serenaded by their happy voices and swells of laughter.

When supper is finished, we take ice cold showers that shrink our skin and damage a few of our vital external organs. I open my fiddle case, rosin the bow, and begin to tune.

I play a few Appalachian melodies while sitting near the window, overlooking the mismatched rooflines of terracotta tiles and aluminum TV antennas.

A grade-school boy in the street below is transfixed by the fiddle music. His little friends gather around him. One is carrying a pelota beneath his arm. They are all staring upward at me. When I finish playing, they all shout “Bravo!” And they applaud.

An old woman passing by joins the tiny onlookers. The woman looks up, listens, and then also gives me a hearty “Bravo!”

A young man riding a bike, stops pedaling and joins them. Now there is a miniature crowd listening. The young man begins doing a mock square dance with the kids. Do-si-do. Swing your partner round and round.

This is surreal.

After a few songs. The day is over. I put the fiddle away. The light from our open windows dims as the last spears of orange sun fade behind the church spire of San Andres cathedral.

In the final minutes of daylight, I am reading the only English book I could find on the Camino “Harry Potter.” I am nibbling on a bar of French chocolate. My wife is journaling. The air is cool and pleasant, smelling faintly of cedar and livestock. And I’m thinking that it’s downright amazing what you find yourself doing when your precious Device quits working.

I hope the power never comes back on