Not too long ago, I wrote a story for this newspaper about the rarity of earthquakes in New York. It ran on April 4. The next day, New York experienced the largest quake since 1884.
This story is not about seismic events but a remembrance of the Great New York Blackout of 2003. I take no responsibility if there are any electrical issues in New York the day after this essay is published. Well, maybe a little.
On Thursday, Aug. 14, 21 years ago, a sweltering hot day, New York and eight states across the Northeast and Canada were plunged into darkness without warning. It jangled nerves and sent many into a panic, coming less than two years after the attacks of 9/11. It was the worst power outage in American history, affecting over 50 million people.
The stock exchange had closed for the day, and thousands of workers were about to head home. As rush hour started, just after 4 p.m., the city came to a sudden and grinding halt.
It was the final day of the New York International Gift Fair at the Javits Center, and my daughter Molly’s 21st birthday. After five tiring days of selling our wares, we had finished dismantling my trade show booth and loaded everything into a 2,000-pound crate to be carted away by forklift and shipped back to Los Angeles. We were happy to be finished by 2 p.m.
Weeks earlier, I had made elaborate plans to celebrate Molly’s milestone birthday that afternoon and evening, ensuring an unforgettable New York experience before heading home to California.
Hailing a cab outside the convention center, we headed to our first stop at a nail salon for manicures and pedicures. After revitalizing our tired feet, we planned to stroll to our 31st-floor room at our posh hotel on Central Park East to dress up for our much-anticipated dinner. Months earlier, I had miraculously scored a coveted reservation at Tao — then the hippest spot, made famous by Carrie and Big from “Sex and the City.”
As we blissfully relaxed our aching feet in warm, lavender-scented water, the salon’s lights, air-conditioning, and music suddenly stopped. The buzz of the city came to a crushing stop. For a split second, there was only dead silence. We all looked around as dread filled the crowded room. Jerking our feet from the warm water, we slid to the window of the second-floor salon. With all the lights out, traffic immediately snarled as frightened folks rushed about.
Molly and I grabbed our shoes and dashed downstairs onto the street along with the other salon patrons and workers. We watched as looks of anguish and terror crossed people’s faces. Rumors of another attack filled the hot, humid air. Cars honked and sirens blared from every direction. Sweat-covered, anxious subway riders clamored out of the underground stations. Some used stairwells to evacuate from office buildings while others waited to be rescued from trains and elevators. Thousands of frantic commuters were stranded.
We slipped our shoes over our damp, oiled feet. I grabbed Molly’s arm and said, “Let’s get to the hotel.” We pushed and shoved our way, zigzagging down crowded sidewalks and dodging cars, buses, taxicabs, fire trucks, and ambulances. I knew I needed to stay calm and not panic. My heart raced while trying to mask my anxiety.
Thankfully, within a short time, Mayor Michael Bloomberg eased initial fears and announced that the massive power outage had been caused by a tree branch in Cleveland hitting a power pole. The welcome news was spread mainly by taxicab radios.
Relieved civilians united in solidarity, directing traffic, guiding strangers from buildings, and reassuring neighbors. Delivery trucks loaded stranded commuters into their cabs. Restaurants opened their doors onto the sidewalks, lighting candles and lanterns as darkness settled, offering food, water, beer, and ice cream to anyone who stopped by. Everywhere we turned, makeshift barbecues popped up, and cafes gave away perishables from their failing refrigerators.
Molly and I continued snaking through the crowds, inching toward our hotel.
“Mom, I’m thirsty and need to rest,” Molly said. I agreed, and we stopped at a corner pub where jovial crowds had gathered outside. The mood was celebratory and carefree as bottles of lukewarm beer were passed around. Now that Molly was 21, she could drink. Legally, that is, and in front of her mother.
“Today is my daughter’s 21st birthday, and she would like a beer,” I announced cheerfully to no one in particular and much to Molly’s chagrin. She blushed as a young man handed her a Guinness. “I’m starving. Let’s see what else we can find,” I said, and we walked a few blocks farther. Stumbling into the Regency Hotel, we ate a delicious complimentary dinner alongside other startled and grateful guests. (Tao was a no-go, for sure.)
After midnight, completely exhausted, we finally arrived at our once-swanky hotel. I hoped we’d be able to get to our room to try to sleep.
The air was stifling as we cautiously entered. Every nook and cranny of the entryway, foyer, reception area, bar, and restaurant was crammed with hotel guests, many in pajamas. Some slept on mattresses dragged from rooms, others on blankets or sprawled across furniture. The luxurious lobby looked like a refugee camp for zombies.
Past the useless elevators, we found the staircase. We struggled to open the heavy door. It was pitch black inside. Returning to the front desk, we asked the flustered clerk for a flashlight. They had run out. We explained that we wanted to get to our room on the 31st floor. The desk clerk shrugged and offered us glow sticks, advising us against our risky plan. Molly and I were determined. We grabbed the glow sticks, snapped them to their dimly illuminated state, and set off like two intrepid explorers into unknown darkness.
Before we could blink, dozens of people had lined up behind us, begging to be led to their rooms. Like guides on Mount Everest, we blindly began the climbing expedition.
Weary guests were guided to their rooms step by step, holding on to one another by shirttails — second floor, third, fourth, 10th, 20th. Soaked with sweat and with trembling legs, we finally reached the 31st floor and our room.
It was suffocatingly hot, and the windows were sealed shut. The water was shut off, and the toilets didn’t flush. But we didn’t care. We had conquered the summit.
It was well after 3 a.m. Molly’s birthday was over. We collapsed on our beds.
She never made it to Tao or any other “special occasion” spot where people might celebrate their 21st birthdays. Instead, Molly’s most noteworthy day occurred on the remarkable streets of New York, courtesy of a tree branch crashing into a power pole in Cleveland.
Stephanie Blank’s writing has appeared in The Los Angeles Times and the collection “Chicken Soup for the Soul: Think Positive, Live Happy.” She lives in East Quogue and Marina del Rey, Calif.