Yesterday afternoon, just before heading out to meet a friend for tea, I received an email from an editor saying that my essay was attached and asking me to read it over for typos and get back to him by tomorrow morning.
Returning around three, I went into the bathroom and turned on the lights. Nothing was illuminated. I tried the switch in the hall. Same thing. The computer, in front of which I was all ready to sit down, was also off.
The last time we had a power outage was in 2005 (Hurricane Wilma). Naturally, one would come just when an editor needed to hear from me.
It was a beautiful January afternoon. I went for a bike ride. Down on Davie Boulevard I saw the cause of the outage: an uprooted and leaning concrete power pole, and next to it, a black SUV with a crumpled front.
I turned around and headed over the 7th Street bridge, along the Riverwalk, down Las Olas. The Adriana bakery had finally opened - now giving the street five - though this one has gluten-free brownies and cookies.
Back in the hood, I rode past a stunning crimson bougainvillea - backlit by a billowy cloud tinged gold - and talked to a Turkish woman watching her little grandson shoot hoops.
Two hours after I had set out, I returned to River Reach. The complex was still dark. Our French neighbors were sitting on their third-floor balcony. "Tom," Charles called down to me, "do you want a pastis?"
A few minutes later, sipping my aperitif, I stopped worrying about my essay.
