Apagão

when a light goes out

On the day of the great apagão, the April 2025 blackout that plunged Portugal and Spain into darkness, I sat on a deck overlooking a verdant valley at a wooden table festooned with wine corks, made by my neighbor V. Our two families pooled the food in our soon-to-be defrosted refrigerators and created a power outage feast — cooked shrimp with a sweet chili/mayonnaise sauce, fresh, crisp salad, slices of sweet fruit. V calmly surveyed the scene, a glass of red wine in his hand, and there was truly no cause for alarm in our little oasis. We were oblivious to the power outage or the time that had passed, until we heard church bells ringing and people in neighboring villages cheering. Then we knew there was light again.

That was just one of many memorable meals we would share with V and his family at that table on that deck and V was always the same steady presence, quietly appreciative, a glass of red wine in his hand.

People come into your life for a reason, they say. How improbable that J and I would befriend a peer who came of age in the Soviet Union, watched it crumble, and helped his country rebuild. How unlikely that we would meet and be neighbors and then friends in a country foreign to us all.

That we would share stories, sweetness, sorrow, and sardines. And that through it all, this man would be the steady presence on the deck, overlooking the verdant vista, a glass of red wine in his hand, bidding us all to sit down at the wooden table festooned with wine corks that he had built.

Our friendship began with a happy hour, but really it began with a rambunctious little girl and her equally rambunctious podengo dog, neither of whom could resist coming up the stairs to our apartment to make friends. We would catch glimpses of the girl and her grandfather V out in the yard practicing football, or climbing into their little white Fiat to go to the gas station, where V would always “surprise” his granddaughter with a treat.

The first time they came up to our place for happy hour, I was nervous about what to cook. But V liked the baked feta and honey I served. “The next week we will host,” his family said, and thus the weekly ritual began — gathering and sharing our native foods and trying new recipes. It soon became evident that their place was better for hosting, so that the podengo, born to be a hunter and far too eager to get to know our cats, could participate. When we were downstairs, my dog Kobe came to love the dulcet sounds of Latvian spoken by V’s wife (also V) and the treats that were freely offered to him by her, the little girl and her mother.

A few hours before Kobe died, we had all been enjoying a happy hour together at our house. It had been raining, but as we ate guacamole, a beautiful rainbow emerged. The next day, when the little girl, her mother, and the podengo came to comfort me, I told them about the Rainbow Bridge, where beloved pets go so they can wait for their loved ones to eventually join them.

When J’s father died and I was alone in the apartment for five weeks, V and his family looked out for me. I played scopa almost every night with the three generations of women in the family, all fiercely competitive, while V sat on the deck sipping his wine.

When the female energy in that household or her emotions got to be too much for the little girl, V quietly stepped in and brought her out to the deck to be with him. He was her soft landing.

In August we were invited to join in a week-long celebration of V and V’s 60th birthdays. Sweethearts since their youth, they had amassed a lifetime of memories together, as well as three children and three grandchildren. Family and friends from around the world came to wish them well and as I listened to their stories about V, I got a better sense of the measure of the man. I already knew he was a devoted husband and a doting father and grandfather. I didn’t know that he was also a father figure to many, a visionary builder, and a lifelong friend.

V’s sardines were the only sardines I’ve ever truly loved — fat and juicy and fresh off the grill, but maybe they tasted so good because the deck was bursting with people. The wooden table festooned with wine corks was full of food and an enormous honey cake had the place of honor in the center of the deck. V and V were wearing the Seattle sweatshirts we had given them for their birthdays. I was moved by the outpouring of love for them and grateful that J and I were welcomed into the fold.

As the week wound down and the guests were getting ready to return to their countries, I ran into V in the garage. He was painstakingly packing up boxes of wine to send home with his guests.

They say people come into your life for a reason and that we all have things to learn from one another.

In the days since V passed away, just a few months after that week of celebration, I’ve been reflecting on what I learned from him.

By all accounts and from what I witnessed, he was a man of integrity and the bonds that he forged with family and friends were the most important achievements of his life. Watching him surrounded by so many of the people whose lives he touched and who touched his life was a reminder that prioritizing human relationships and maintaining a generosity of spirit is the recipe for a life well lived.

V taught his daughter how to run a business. He taught his granddaughter how to play chess when she was little - maybe four or five. He was proud of how smart they both were and of his granddaughter’s irrepressible spirit. “She is singing all the time,” he said lovingly.

When V’s light went out, the podengo knew that his family needed him. He slept beside V’s wife, so that when she woke in the night she would not be alone.

I don’t know if there is a Rainbow Bridge for humans but I do know that the people we love stay with us in some form. I want to reassure the little girl that her grandfather is still with her, but I don’t need to tell her that, she says she can feel him walking behind her. I want to reassure his daughter that after the profound pain of loss subsides, she will carry her father’s essence with her forever. I want her to know that the light will return to her heart.

So I give her the Maya Angelou poem that brought my family comfort when my father-in-law passed away, the poem that describes what happens When Great Trees Fall.

J was away in Mexico and I was having trouble reaching him when I got the news that V had passed. When I finally do he tells me there was a blackout — an apagón they call it in Spanish.

On behalf of both of us, I offered my condolences to the family with the Maya Angelou poem, a honey cake that J had bought to share with V, a memorial candle like the one we burned for my father-in-law, and six white roses that a Portuguese florist had arranged for me to honor the Latvian tradition of mourning.

They say that one of the challenges of living abroad is forging deep and meaningful relationships.

How lucky are we to have shared stories, sweetness, sorrow, and sardines with V and his family. To have basked in the light of this man, a steady presence on the deck, overlooking the verdant vista, a glass of red wine in his hand, bidding us all to sit down at the wooden table festooned with wine corks that he had built.

People come into your life for a reason.

For some reason, I wanted to ease my aching heart by listening to this beautiful song, by Kenyan singer Ayub Ogada, which I used to listen to a long time ago.

Kothbiro means the rain is coming, and the song is call to the children to gather the livestock as the rain approaches. It’s about community, and unity, and elders passing on their wisdom to the next generation.