2025-04-30
THE GREAT NEW YORK BLACKOUT OF '77
It's been 48 years, but I remember it as if it happened now. That hot summer in New York. That day, July 13, was a clear day, and early in the morning I rode the subway.
On a lonely platform I met a Russian monk, dressed in black, with a long Byzantine beard and Merovingian hair falling on his cassock. He looked at me with such intensity that I had to lower my head.
Suddenly he disappeared, and I took the train to one of the stations on First Avenue, to get closer to my office at the UN. I sent my wife to Spain to give birth, because the medical expenses in America would have cost me a pretty penny. I felt a little lonely and depressed.
My son Tonin had been born in Oviedo a month earlier, and I was alone in that Manhattan apartment, a forty-story tower in Waterside Plaza that cost me a fortune because it took up almost half my salary.
For me, a European with medieval roots, New York was a strange city where very strange things could happen.
So the vision of that black monk on the platform of one of the downtown stations could have been a figment of my overactive imagination.
That summer I read Chekhov, who wrote a story by the same name, “The Black Monk,” and Julio Camba, whose “Automatic City” takes us to the edges of chaos and predicts what might happen in the Big Apple if the power went out. Well, on July 13, 1977, the power went out.
In my office at the UN, I was unable to get my report through the cameraman.
Confusion reigned. The elevators and escalators were out of order. One of my colleagues, I think it was Valverde from YA, who had a pocket transistor radio, made us form a group to listen to the news on the local station.
“Leave immediately. This could be a nuclear attack.” I looked confidently at Jose Maria Carrascal, who had rushed in from his home in Queens, suffocating in his Volkswagen, imported from Germany.
“Oh, my God.”
“I don’t think it’s the Russians. Carrascal said it looked like a high-alert exercise.”
We had to take the punishment, but it took us almost a quarter of an hour to leave the blue building (their name for the United Nations headquarters). The officials, the legations, the translators, even the cleaning ladies were crowded around the flower beds by the exit gate, and they had to leave one by one. I must remember that such nuclear alert drills were common in New York at a time when the Cold War intrigues were still in effect.
There were several nuclear shelters in the city, as I reported in my report (see old collections of state newspapers). First Avenue was also in disarray. Hordes had descended from the upper city and were looting stores.
They looted everything they could find. I saw tall, strong black men, like Hottentots, carrying televisions, washing machines, vacuum cleaners and all sorts of household appliances on their backs. This is what happens when the power goes out, as Julio Camba already predicted in The Automatic City. We are very fragile, and if a black hand cuts the string of the grand puppet show, the dance will begin.
But was it an attack by the Russians or not? Almost half a century later, I do not know what to answer or which card to choose.
There was no Internet at the time. America really felt threatened by the Russians, and that phrase wasn’t just a movie title.
Finally, in the middle of fishing, I managed to get to Waterside Plaza. There, the doorman, a very friendly Puerto Rican, to whom you spoke in Spanish and he answered you in English and vice versa, told me that the elevators were out of order.
I had to walk up the 24th floor to my apartment. There I was able to tell my story over the phone, and it worked.
You can read the ARRIBA issue of July 14, 1977, which, as I said, chronicles the circumstances without wasting words. I was depressed. I had just had a son. My family was far away, and I felt alone in the middle of a huge city with a view of the Empire State Building and the Twin Towers. There were no lights in the skyscrapers.
New York was like a ghost town. I was thinking about the horizon. The Big Apple offers stunning sunsets. A sunset that tends to be much faster and more lightning-fast, like in the tropics, than in Madrid or Oviedo, since the New York meridian is marked on maps almost a quarter lower than the Sicilian one.
I went to bed in the dark. At midnight the phone rang; I received a pleasant transoceanic call from Oviedo. My father-in-law Gabriel Tuya was worried about the news of the power outage. I was on the line:
─Antonio, are you okay after the power outage?
─Did the baby survive?
ВЕЛИКИЙ НЬЮ-ЙОРКСКИЙ БЛЭК-АУТ 77 ГОДА
Прошло 48 лет, но я помню это так, как будто это произошло сейчас. То жаркое лето в Нью-Йорке. В тот день 13 июля выдался ясный день, и рано утром я поехал на метро.
На одинокой платформе я встретил русского монаха, одетого в черное, с длинной византийской бородой и меровингскими волосами, ниспадающими на рясу. Он посмотрел на меня с такой силой, что мне пришлось опустить голову.
Внезапно он исчез, а я сел на поезд и доехал до одной из станций на Первой авеню, чтобы добраться поближе к своему офису в ООН. Я отправил жену рожать в Испанию, потому что медицинские расходы в Америке обошлись бы мне в кругленькую сумму. Я чувствовал себя немного одиноким и подавленным.
Мой сын Тонин родился в Овьедо месяцем ранее, и я был один в той квартире на Манхэттене, сорокаэтажной башне в Уотерсайд Плаза, которая стоила мне кучу денег, потому что на нее уходило почти половина моей зарплаты.
Для меня, европейца со средневековыми корнями, Нью-Йорк был странным городом, где могли происходить очень странные вещи.
Так что видение того черного монаха на платформе одной из станций в центре города могло быть плодом моего воспаленного воображения.
Тем летом я читал Чехова, который написал рассказ с таким же названием «Черный монах», и Хулио Камбу, чей «Автоматический город» переносит нас на границы хаоса и предсказывает, что может произойти в Большом Яблоке, если отключится электричество. Ну, 13 июля 1977 года отключилось электричество.
Находясь в своем офисе в ООН, я не смог передать свой отчет через телеоператора.
Царила неразбериха. Лифты и эскалаторы не работали. Один из моих коллег, по-моему, это был Вальверде из YA, у которого был карманный транзисторный радиоприемник, заставил нас объединиться в группу, чтобы послушать выпуск новостей по местной станции.
«Уходите немедленно. Это может быть ядерная атака». Я с самоуверенностью посмотрел на Хосе Марию Карраскаля, который спешно прибыл из своего дома в Квинсе, задыхаясь в своем «Фольксвагене», привезенном из Германии.
─Боже мой.
─Я не думаю, что это русские. Карраскаль сказал, что это похоже на учения повышенной готовности.
Нам пришлось понести наказание, но нам потребовалось почти четверть часа, чтобы покинуть синее здание (так они называли штаб-квартиру Организации Объединенных Наций). Чиновники, дипломатические представительства, переводчики и даже уборщицы толпились вокруг клумб у выездных ворот, и им приходилось уходить по одному. Я должен помнить, что подобные учения по ядерной тревоге были обычным явлением в Нью-Йорке в то время, когда еще действовали интриги холодной войны.
В городе было несколько ядерных убежищ, о чем я сообщал в отчете (см. старые подборки государственных газет). На Первой авеню тоже царил беспорядок. Орды спустились из верхнего города и занялись грабежом магазинов.
Они разграбили все, что нашли. Я видел высоких, крепких чернокожих мужчин, похожих на готтентотов, которые несли на спинах телевизоры, стиральные машины, пылесосы и всевозможную бытовую технику. Именно это и происходит, когда отключается электричество, как уже предсказывал Хулио Камба в «Автоматическом городе». Мы очень хрупки, и если черная рука перережет нить грандиозного кукольного спектакля, начнется танец.
Но было ли это нападением со стороны русских или нет? Спустя почти полвека я не знаю, что ответить и какую карту выбрать.
В то время Интернета не существовало. Америка действительно чувствовала угрозу со стороны русских, и эта фраза была не просто названием фильма.
Наконец, в самый разгар рыбалки, мне удалось добраться до Waterside Plaza. Там швейцар, очень дружелюбный пуэрториканец, с которым вы говорили по-испански, а он отвечал вам по-английски и наоборот, сказал мне, что лифты не работают.
Мне пришлось подниматься на 24 этаж до своей квартиры пешком. Там я смог рассказать свою историю по телефону, и это сработало.
Вы можете ознакомиться с выпуском ARRIBA от 14 июля 1977 года, где, как я уже сказал, изложена хроника обстоятельств, причем без лишних слов. Я был в депрессии. У меня только что родился сын. Моя семья была далеко, и я чувствовал себя одиноким посреди огромного города с видом на Эмпайр-стейт-билдинг и башни-близнецы. В окнах небоскребов не было света.
Нью-Йорк был похож на город-призрак. Я размышлял о горизонте. В Большом Яблоке можно полюбоваться потрясающими закатами. На закате, который, как правило, происходит гораздо быстрее и молниеноснее, как в тропиках, чем в Мадриде или Овьедо, поскольку нью-йоркский меридиан на картах обозначен почти на четверть ниже, чем сицилийский.
Я лег спать в темноте. В полночь зазвонил телефон; Я получил приятный трансокеанский звонок из Овьедо. Мой тесть Габриэль Туйя был обеспокоен новостями об отключении электроэнергии. Я был на связи:
─Антонио, ты в порядке после отключения электроэнергии?
─Ребенок выжил?
2025-04-29
EL GRAN APAGÓN NEOYORQUINO DEL 77
Han pasado 48 años
pero lo recuerdo como si fuese ahora. Aquel tórrido verano en Nueva York. Aquel
13 de julio amaneció radiante y de mañanita tomé el subway.
En el andén solitario
me topé con un monje ruso vestido de negro con largas barbas bizantinas y una
cabellera merovingia que se derramaban sobre sus vestimentas talares. Me miraba
intensamente con tal fuerza que hube de agachar la cabeza.
De pronto desapareció
y yo tomé el tren ascendente hasta una de las estaciones de la primera Avenida
para acercarme a mi despacho en la ONU.
Yo había mandado a mi esposa a parir a España porque los gastos clínicos e América
me hubieran salido por un ojo de la cara. Me sentía algo solo y deprimido.
Hacía un mes que había
nacido en Oviedo mi hijo Toñín y yo estaba solo en aquel apartamento Manhattan una torre de cuarenta pisos en
Waterside Plaza, que me salía por un ojo de la cara pues se me llevaba casi la
mitad de mi jornal.
Nueva York era para
mí, un europeo con raíces medievales, una ciudad extraña, donde podían ocurrir
cosas muy raras.
Así que la visión de aquel
monje negro en el andén de una de las estaciones del Downtown podría ser una
lucubración de mi mente calenturienta.
Aquel verano yo leía a Chejov que escribió un
cuento con ese nombre El Monje Negro
y a Julio Camba el cual en la Ciudad Automática
nos acerca hasta las fronteras del caos y vaticina lo que podría ocurrir en la
Gran Manzana si se va la luz. Bueno aquel
13 de julio de 1977 se fue la luz.
Ya en mi despacho de
la ONU no pude transmitir mi crónica por el teleoperador.
Reinaba la confusión. No
funcionaban los ascensores ni las escaleras mecánicas. Uno de mis colegas creo
que era Valverde el del YA que llevaba un transistor de bolsillo nos hizo
formar un corrillo para escuchar las noticias que transmitía una emisora local.
“Salgan
inmediatamente. Esto puede ser un ataque nuclear”. Miré con desparpajo a José María Carrascal que había llegado
presuroso desde su casa de Queens que perdía el bofe a bordo de su wolkswagen
traído de Alemania.
─Caramba.
─No creo que sean los
rusos. Esto parece un simulacro de alerta máxima dijo Carrascal.
Había que tomar el tole
pero tardamos casi un cuarto de hora de salir del edificio azul (así llamaban a
la sede de Naciones Unidas). Los funcionarios, legaciones diplomáticas,
traductores y hasta las señoras de la limpieza se agolpaban frente a los parterres
de la verja de salida y había que salir de uno en uno. He de recordar que tales
simulacros de alerta nuclear eran frecuentes en el Nueva York de aquellos
tiempos cuando estaba aun en en vigor los tejemanejes de la guerra fría.
La ciudad contaba con
varios refugios atómicos, según conté yo en un reportaje (ver las colecciones antiguas
de los periódicos estatales). La First Avenue también era un caos. Habían bajado
las hordas del uppertown y se dedicaban al pillaje de los comercios.
Desvalijaban todo lo
que encontraban. Vi a negros altos y fuertes como hotentotes que cargaban con
televisores, lavadoras, aspiradoras y toda clase de electrodomésticos a la
espalda. Esto es lo que pasa cuando se va la luz, ya lo había profetizado Julio
Camba en la Ciudad Automática. Somos muy frágiles y si una mano negra corta el
hilo conductor del gran guiñol empieza la danza.
¿Perol era o no era un
ataque de los rusos? Transcurrido casi medio siglo no sabría qué responder ni a
qué carta quedarme.
Por lo pronto no
existía entonces el internet. Eso sí América se sentía amenazada por el temor
del que vienen los rusos y esa frase era algo más que el título de una
película.
Por fin en medio de la
gran pecorea pude abrirme paso hasta Waterside Plaza. Allí el portero (doorman)
que era un portorriqueño muy simpático al cual le hablabas en español y te
contestaba en inglés o viceversa me comunicó que los ascensores no funcionaban.
Hube de subir los 24 pisos
hasta mi apartamento a pata. Allí pude largar mi crónica por teléfono que sí
que funcionaba.
Pueden consultar en la
edición de ARRIBA del 14 de julio de 1977, una crónica de circunstancias ya
digo y sin paños al púlpito. Yo estaba deprimido. Un hijo me acababa de nacer. Mi
familia estaba lejos y yo me sentía desolado en medio de la inmensa ciudad con
vistas al Empire State Building y a las Torres Gemelas. No había luz en las ventanas de los rascacielos.
Nueva York parecía una
ciudad fantasma. Contemplé el skyline. La Gran Manzana ofrece unos ocasos
espectaculares. A la hora del atardecer (sunset) que suelen ser mucho más rápidos
y fulminantes, como en el trópico, que en Madrid o en Oviedo puesto que el meridiano
neoyorquino lo muestran los mapas casi una cuarta más abajo que el de Sicilia.
A oscuras me fui a la cama. A media noche soñó
el teléfono; recibí una grata llamada transoceánica desde Oviedo. Mi suegro
Gabriel Tuya, el hombre estaba preocupado por las noticias que llegaban acerca
dfel apagón. Estaba al aparato:
─Antonio ¿estás bien
después del apagón?
─Sobrevivo ¿El niño?
─Una preciosidad. Todo
un carballón
─Vale que esto corre.
Colgué y ya no me
acordaba del monje negro, ni de la gran pecorea, ni del saco de Roma, ni de las
alertas nucleares. La luz vendría al día siguiente
miércoles, 30 de abril
de 2025
2025-04-28
EL ARTE ROMANICO CONTRA EL GÓTICO. MUNDO GRAMÁTICO VERSUS MUNDO TEOLÓGICO. MESTER DE CLERECÍA Y MESTER DE JUGLARÍA (I)
Son bellos estos días
de finales de abril. San Jorge mata la mosca.
El papa argentino se
ha muerto, vendrá otro y yo contemplo el florecer del roble, del tamarindo, de
los regoldos y del moral del jardín central desde mi chiscón.
Es la energía y la luz
de resurrección, unas ganas de vivir que siento de año en año. El gozo pascual
baña mi piel de aromas olvidados.
Me hundo en la lectura
de un libro de Apolonio. Es una novela bizantina que estampa en sus páginas los
saberes y quereres del mundo románico que es el de la retórica, cuando la mitad
de las cristiandades de Europas no sabía leer.
Y se empapaba de las parábolas del evangelio
en aquellos libros de piedra que eran los atrios románicos con sus canecillos,
sus esfinges, reyes coronados y reinas que muestran sus pechos, frailes
fornicarios[i] que dan
caña a un mono por detrás, ángeles tocando la vihuela, saltimbanquis que soplan
un adufe, y todo esto que es a la vez divino y humano, al pie de la mandorla mística,
una vagina desde la cual salta un Cristo triunfante y resucitado.
Yo vengo de ese mundo románico.
Un rincón con forma de esconce, escondite geográfico el cual en la era
cuaternaria fue mar y al retirarse las
aguas emergieron arrecifes de roca calcárea con fósiles, prehistóricos, estalactitas
y estalagmitas.
Roma aprovechó estos
cantos rodados para construir sus estradas y templos a Júpiter. Llegado el
cristianismo estas rocas sirvieron de sillares para construir los templos
románicos como la torre de san Gregorio de mi pueblo en lo alto del somo.
El acceso a la torre
subía por una escalera de caracol cuyos peldaños aparecían gastados más de
media cuarta. Huellas centenarias.
Para mí esta fue una
escalera sagrada que me parlaba de un trajín milenario de ancestros míos
cristianos viejos que habían subido y bajado desde el año 1000 cuando la
iglesia fue consagrada.
Algunas noches por el
ventanuco de mi habitación oí bolear las campañas y escuché el zapateo de
cientos de sacristanes que habían subido y bajado por el angosto husillo (mis ancestros
eran bajos de estatura pero cuadrados de plexo solar, hombres recios, para la
pelea con el agareno, fueron los que llevaron la cruz a América) repiques de
gloria, boleos de misa de boda, alertando de la anúteba o invasión, del fuego y
de la peste.
Unos calzaban abarcas,
otros las cáligas del calzado de los mozárabes
o babuchas moriscas, o bien alpargatas. Pocos iban de polainas aunque la
mayoría subían y bajaban descalzos.
El tantán de difuntos
era el más lúgubre pues lloraba el bronce la partida de alguien a la eternidad.
¿Quién se ha muerto?
Tierra románica, costumbres romanas y campos
góticos. Todo esto sentí después de abrir las páginas del libro de Apolonio
lunes, 28 de abril de
2025
[i] Este
detalle puede verse en un capitel de la iglesia de San Miguel de la Villa de
Fuentidueña, Segovioa
2025-04-27
MEDIO SIGLO DE LA CAIDA DE SAIGON CUANDO DAVID DERROTÓ A GOLIAT (una cronica manipulada y no del odo veraz del acontecimiento en LA Times
HO CHI MINH CITY, Vietnam — Military officers stoop to inspect slim green cannons along the Saigon River. Construction equipment whines as workers erect towering bleachers in a downtown park. Fighter jets and helicopters roar above the city in practice drills.
For weeks, Vietnam has been preparing this city for the anniversary of a defining moment in the nation’s history: On April 30, 1975, North Vietnamese forces stormed the Presidential Palace in Saigon, the governing seat of the Republic of Vietnam, just days after U.S. troops had withdrawn. The victory of the communist regime over the U.S. allied armies in the south effectively ended a costly, three decades-long conflict and unified the country.
Fifty years later, Vietnam is celebrating April 30 like never before. But amid the fanfare of parades, fireworks and airshows, a long-standing debate over what to call the holiday continues, a subtle acknowledgment of the lingering scars of a contentious war.
The official designation is “The Liberation of the South and National Reunification Day,” but it’s known by many other names. Vietnamese who are aligned with the ruling communist party here often refer to it as Liberation Day or Victory Day, while those who resettled in the U.S. still use terms such as Black April or National Day of Resentment. Many Vietnamese in Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City — as Saigon is known today — say they simply refer to it as April 30.
In the run-up to the 50th anniversary under General Secretary To Lam, who assumed party leadership in August, academics say that state media and government have embraced the shorthand “Reunification Day.”
“It has been a divisive issue for Vietnamese within Vietnam, and also between the government of Vietnam and the diaspora,” said Tuong Vu, a professor of political science at the University of Oregon and founding director of its U.S.-Vietnam Research Center. “But this year, they have talked a bit more about national reconciliation and unification.”
Throughout history, different names have often been given to the same wars and holidays, depending on who is framing the conflict. Here the Vietnam War is referred to as the American War, or the Resistance War Against America.
The American Civil War was sometimes referred in the South as the War Between the States, and, later, the War of Northern Aggression. The 1973 Arab-Israeli War is also known as the Yom Kippur War and the October War, among other names.
Academics suggest that, for Vietnam, using the more neutral name of Reunification Day could help bridge a gap with the generations of Vietnamese who grew up abroad.
“It does show an effort to reach out to the other side, and that’s what many people have been advising the government,” Vu said. “If you want to take advantage of the strength of the diaspora, then you have to tone down your rhetoric.”
In February, secretary of the Ho Chi Minh City Party Committee Nguyen Van Nen said the holiday should be considered a day of peace.
“It must be affirmed that it was a war of national defense, not about winning or losing. On the day peace came, there were mixed emotions — some felt joy; others sorrow. But after 50 years, personal sorrow needs to merge with the joy of the nation,” he said, according to Vietnamese media.
Vietnam’s determination to navigate a changing geopolitical landscape — with a flexible approach known as “bamboo diplomacy” — has also influenced the language its leaders use to describe the past.
For example, Vu said official statements now have fewer references to a “puppet government” in what was formerly South Vietnam, a term used to delegitimize its former adversary and denounce America’s involvement in the war. He added this shift was probably made in the hope of improving cooperation with the U.S. and to strengthen Vietnam’s territorial claims to several islands in the South China Sea.
The country has benefited from maintaining strong bilateral ties to both China and the U.S., its two largest trading partners, even as the rivalry between the two superpowers has intensified.
“They just kind of worked to build relationships with everybody and become a bigger player because of their economic development,” said Scot Marciel, a former ambassador based in Vietnam when it resumed diplomatic relations with the U.S. in 1995. “The business community has tended to view Vietnam as really a rising star in the region. It’s been a very steady, very pragmatic approach.”
The Trump administration may be taking action that could dim that star. Earlier this month, President Trump proposed a 46% tariff on U.S. imports from Vietnam, which could stall the country’s manufacturing and economic growth. Various news outlets have reported that Trump has also told senior diplomats in Vietnam not to attend the April 30 festivities.
Vietnam also invited military personnel from China, Cambodia and Laos to participate in its holiday parade.
“Vietnam prioritizes its relationship with regional and ideological allies as much as this strategic partnership with the U.S.,” said An Nguyen, a historian and lecturer at the University of Maine. “Maintaining that balance, I think, is becoming much harder in today’s context.
Hai Nguyen Hong, a senior lecturer of politics and international relations at Vin University in Hanoi, said he’s noticed the use of terms such as Liberation Day and Anti-American War has decreased over the past three-plus years. That shift, he said, can go a long way in changing perceptions in Vietnam and promoting national harmony.
“The day itself is a historical day. You can’t change it,” Hong said. “What you can change, and what you can see and observe change, is the mood and the attitude of the Vietnamese people.”
Vietnamese media and online discourse are tightly controlled, and there are no national surveys that include uncensored opinions about the government. But ahead of the high-profile commemoration on Wednesday, reactions to the celebration on the streets of Ho Chi Minh City ranged from enthusiasm to ambivalence.
Tran Thi Loan Anh, a 27-year-old tax advisor, said that she and her friends plan to camp out downtown at 3 a.m. the day of the parade, in order to secure a front-row view.
“I’ve been impressed by how the government has organized events that foster patriotism and national pride,” she said. “I’m especially struck by how music is used — traditional songs about the nation performed in such powerful, stirring ways.”
Pham Phu Quy, a driver and deliveryman, was a teenager in Saigon in 1975, with a father who worked for the South Vietnamese government, and a mother who worked for the northern army. Today, the 69-year-old said, Vietnam provides a freedom that differs from his childhood experiences. During the war, soldiers and checkpoints kept him from traveling. Now he rides his motorbike all around the country, taking selfies and photos along the way.
“I don’t know what the future holds, but this is a good enough life for me. Of course, debates between the two sides still continue to this day,” he said. “I just feel that if the country hadn’t been reunified — if the war had continued — everything would still be incredibly difficult.”
Pham Thao Anh, 75, is used to spending the national holiday in the capital of Hanoi where she grew up. But this year, she plans to fly to Ho Chi Minh City to celebrate.
“I remember that some of the soldiers that drove the tank into the Independence Palace that day were from my hometown,” the retired hospital worker said. “So this day has very special meaning to me.”
Nguyen Thuy Vy, a 32-year-old translator, said her generation generally has less attachment to the April 30 anniversary than other holidays such as Valentine’s Day, Christmas or Lunar New Year. “Young people I think nowadays are busy with work, and they don’t care about this traditional holiday,” she said.
But Le Anh Dung, a 23-year-old graphic designer in Hanoi, grew up hearing stories about the war from his grandfather, a former military officer who was working in North Vietnam’s artillery unit the day Saigon fell. Reading about the wars in Ukraine and Gaza have made him more appreciative of peace at home, he said, adding, “I feel so lucky that I don’t have to endure the smell of gunpowder or crawl into a bunker once in a while, like previous generations did.”
His grandfather, Nguyen Van Them, 73, said watching the celebrations on television helped his grandchildren understand what previous generations sacrificed for them. He believes that tweaking the holiday’s name makes it more meaningful.
“‘Liberation of the South’ is not quite right, because it only mentions one half. But the other half also looks forward to the country’s liberation, unity, harmony and oneness,” Nguyen said.
