For a brief moment last week, I feared I would never know exactly how tall Danny DeVito really is. This is useless information, but I exist on a diet of useless information, so being deprived of it felt urgent, an emergency.

They say you always remember where you were and what you were doing when a life-changing event happens. Usually, people mean something momentous, like the death of Princess Diana or Sydney winning the Olympic Games. But the feeling was the same when the Optus network crashed during my Wednesday morning ride to work.

Perhaps the secret to true connection is being disconnected?Credit: Gregory Baldwin / Alamy Stock Photo

Where was I the day Optus died? On the 7:28 to Town Hall, googling “How tall is Danny DeVito?”

Word spread quickly and, most crucially, by mouth: Australia’s largest internet provider had gone down, and no one knew why. Like an idiot, I immediately went to text everyone I knew about the situation before realising that it was impossible: no texting, no googling, no way of tapping off when I reached my destination.

Of all the environments that rely on the internet as a distraction, the train is right up there. There is an unspoken agreement that the daily commute is designed to quietly mainline the internet directly into your veins. It is a period for mindless scrolling and replying to group chats, for sharing darkly comic memes with friends about how bad life is, or listening to podcasts that promise to help fix your bad life.

Take this away, and commuters will riot, right? Wrong. In lieu of high-speed connection, something odd happened: people opted for real-life connection. Strangers bonded over their mutual lack of service (Mine says SOS too!), bored lovers looked up from their devices and into each other’s eyes.

Look at all these happy people ready to have a chat.Credit: Brook Mitchell

The guy sitting next to me actually asked me to move so he could get off instead of just grunting and staring into my soul, as people usually do. By the time we arrived at Town Hall, the quiet carriage was humming with chatter, and I imagined this is how it felt in the 1950s, minus all the fancy hats.

Sure, much of the conversation was focused on when we might get back online to ignore each other again, but at least we were talking.