Les Meves Memòries

I have a bad memory of living here, one that is mine and also shared by many people from here (especially young people and retirees who had children and grandchildren, and women, who shoulder all the difficulties): when the economic crisis began in 2008 across Spain, especially in Catalonia.

I had my own business; many people worked, and I was in charge of paying salaries, benefits, rent, and purchasing goods, and at the end of the month I had to pay taxes, merchandise, electricity, telephone, water, etc.

There were thousands like me, and perhaps many had it worse than I did… who endured that period with great difficulty, stress, and worst of all: the situation of young people, unemployment, and the closure of many national and foreign companies, in addition to my own problems. I worried about people, youth unemployment, and the general depression.

And there were those who had to bear the loss of all their homes, their jobs, their capital, and their debts to the banks. Many others emigrated, and many other things happened…

Finally, I wanted to thank all the mothers and friends who, as always, managed to overcome those difficult times with their support and dedication to their families.

I wish all these women health and happiness.

Mina H. Najafi, 60 years old

The smell I miss

I nostalgically remember the days of my childhood in our kitchen, the smell of the broth my mother made… Unto; it comes from the fat that covers the pig’s intestines and kidneys. It is salted, rolled, and often smoked to cure it. It is an ingredient that cannot be missing from Galician broth.

“Caldo que no leva unto, non está no punto” (“Broth without unto isn’t right”).

At the Santa Caterina Market I had a small offal stall, “Menuts Conxita.” Lamb and beef offal. Lamb’s brain, tripe, beef liver…

I had a great time.

However, I couldn’t sell unto, because it was a product reserved for the pork butchers. That’s why, every time I have Galician broth, I’m transported back to my village.

Conchita Lorenzo, 84 years old

In the village everyone was a neighbor, people knew each other, and when I arrived in Barcelona I found a neighborhood that welcomed me as one of their own. It was a small building, with one family per landing.

The neighbors in the building and the street—so narrow—made me feel like I was in a new, small town; they kept me company and led me to walk safely through the huge cloud of the city, which is so intimidating at first… Later I grew to like the hustle and bustle, and the imprint of people, proud and rushing as if life were slipping away from them. I was very struck by how, on such a small street, there was room not only for so many people, but for so much life (taverns, shops, rag-and-bone men, the carpenter, the optician, the bakery…).

After years on the same street, where typical festivities like La Castanyada, Christmas, and Sant Joan are celebrated… tourism arrives with force and brings more movement and work, but the nighttime silence and the lifelong shops are lost… In short, the sense of neighborhood is lost.

Alfredo Bujanda, 79 years old

When Holy Week ended in 1963, I came to live in Barcelona. The “Express” train came from Madrid and, even though we were in second class, it took many hours and felt very tiring; I was 13 years old.

That week it rained a lot. The following week there was bright sunshine and it got warmer. On the 23rd, Sant Jordi, the streets in central Barcelona were full of little florist stalls selling roses and larger stalls selling books.

You could stroll along La Rambla and there weren’t so many people, nor so much tourism; lately it’s getting overcrowded and you can’t stroll either along the Ramblas or in the city center.
The bakers’ guild also makes flatbreads and cakes with the bands of the Catalan flag. It’s an open day at the City Hall and the Government Palace.

I was little, but since then I’ve got used to buying books.

Maria Pérez, 76 years old

Hello! I’m the face in the middle; the ones beside me are my sisters. This has been our fountain for more than three hundred years—this street-architecture fountain.
In the 1950s and 60s the square was full of life, and I, the face in the middle, spoke with everyone who came to fetch fresh water from my fountain.
“Hello, Mrs. Maria, how’s everything? Coming from the grocery? And have you spoken with the porter at the Moxó Palace?” “Yes, we had a good chat. Well, they say they have to speak with the priest at Sant Just, I don’t know why…” “Now I remember—the marchioness wants a ceremony to be held.”
Funeral or celebratory processions were common, where aristocracy mingled with people from the neighborhood, who stood by watching them pass.
What times, oh Maria—I remember the bonfire on Saint John’s Eve that lit up the whole square and my fountain.
Thinking back, I recall the little gilder’s shop, Mr. Antoni, who had tiny sheets of gold to make images shine; children would ask for the used bits to see if any gold was left… Then they would come to the fountain to wash their hands and, if a speck of gold fell in, I was very happy…

Neighbors of today, from here and there, come stroll through the square and I will give you my fresh water that comes from Collserola!

Montserrat Canals, 77 years old

All Saints’ Day (which here is called “La Castanyada”) is widely celebrated; the family gets together to enjoy the day.

Panellets are made with lots of almonds and sugar and are given different flavors; they’re delicious and remind me of nougat, and when I arrived in Barcelona I learned how to make them. I like them all, especially the pine nut ones. Panellets were accompanied by muscatel, which is like our sweet wine.
Besides panellets, on All Saints’ Day we eat chestnuts; in Navarre we eat chestnuts too, but boiled with anise and at Christmas.
For me, La Castanyada tastes like Christmas.

Felisa Ruiz, 77 years old

It was a festival held on July 10th, when the street was decorated with little flags.
In the morning the band would pass by around 8 o’clock; then they would stand in front of the chapel playing music. Cars drove past and the priest blessed them, and the drivers were given a flower and a sprig of lavender; there was a very long line that didn’t stop all day. Around midday vintage cars from all over Catalonia passed by; it was a very beautiful and traditional festival, and the neighborhood was very happy. Nowadays the Sitges Rally is held around these dates, but Saint Christopher goes by unnoticed.

Maria del Carme Yelmo, 86 years old

My street, Avinyó, was made of mud; there was the place for plates and pots where they sold earthenware casseroles for cooking, as well as many shops: a place where they cleaned metals, a quick “The cobbler,” a newspaper kiosk run by an elderly lady, a marble engraver, and at number 44 there was also a school (there were several on the same street).
There was a shop that had everything for lighting (lamps, garlands, lanterns) and right after it there was a dairy, where the milk came directly from the cows, which they kept in the back room; it was warm and very good, different from today’s.

All of this has been lost…

Toñi Valiente, 71 years old