Facing old age surrounded by expats: "If I feel ill one day, I find myself unable to tell anyone."

Barcelona"Maybe they're temporary rentals," says Xavier, as he looks at the balconies of the building where he lives. Some are from a catalog: a small plant, a small table, wooden chairs. Others are empty. But most look lived in: there's light at night and names on the mailboxes. He's lived on the first floor for almost 50 years, and when he goes out onto the balcony, he can see those below him, like the first mezzanine: "Every time they come, they put up new plants. They stay for a few months and then leave." Some Australians live there, and their balcony is empty, and they've surely learned their lesson: the plants now hanging from the wrought iron won't die. They're tropical.

"They used to be here more often; they haven't been here for four or five months," explains Xavier, referring to these neighbors he knows little about and with whom he's exchanged just the right amount of polite words. They've never gone beyond a "hello," except for an occasional meeting on the stairs, which could even be considered virtual. The language barrier forced them to speak into the phone, holding it very close to their mouths. And after a few seconds, the simultaneous translation reproduced the message in the other person's language. The subject of the conversation, in the least ambitious sense of the word, was urgent: there was a cockroach infestation on the mezzanine.

"I don't know why he told me; I thought I could do something." Xavier, who arrived here in 1977 and is 76 years old, was until recently the only resident in the entire building, located on Diputació Street and Bailèn Street. Around 2016, a Dutch fund took over the entire property and decided to stop renewing contracts. But he was able to save himself: he had an old rental contract. All the tenants had to leave. "The construction work was hell; they didn't apply for a major works permit. We wore hard hats inside the house," he says. And the one where they had a renovated apartment, an apartment that was for sale: already at a much higher price. "Some sold for 800,000 euros," he says. As he speaks, he recalls that he used to have two elderly sisters upstairs, and two married couples downstairs.

The changes are evident: their language, for example, is no longer felt in the staircase. "There's a Catalan at the top," he says. In the entrance, a large mirror adds spaciousness while reflecting a circular lamp. All of this gives it a polished and luxurious feel. The light is always on and highlights a number engraved on the wall, located at the top of the elevator: 1888. Perhaps it's the age of the building, although it has recently shed years: its residents are young families again and move around in a stealthy metal box that quickly connects their house to theirs. Another new feature is that this elevator now reaches the top. It seems this Catalan has bought two apartments and built a pool on the roof, he says.

But that's the only thing that isn't foreign, Xavier explains. The proof is in the mailboxes: William, Youmisa, Dino, D'Angelo, Steve, Nihal; where you'll also find the address of a limited company: El Secreto Inversor. In front of this block, there are two private schools, where the din of children imprints a normality that's also receding: the number of children in Barcelona has decreased. On the same street Diputació, a few meters from where Xavier lives, there's a similar story: a few years ago, a nonagenarian lived there, having left her old-fashioned rental apartment. She was also the last resident in the block, until one day they threatened her: if she didn't leave, she would suffer a hell of construction work, including the elevator being shut down.

The move, in that case, was from a handful of streets: from Pau Claris, where she lived, to Bailèn Street. However, despite their proximity, they never got to know each other. Neither with Xavier, nor with his neighbors. Those who were luckier moved to Fort Pienc. Others ended up in La Verneda. These are two stories from the same diaspora that empties buildings of their residents and fills them with nine of their fellow citizens. "I remember that back then we had minor problems and we solved them together. Once we wrote a letter to the administrator asking for a light in the stairwell," Xavier recalls. "Now that I'm older, if one day I feel ill, I find myself unable to call anyone. Thank goodness I have the City Hall medal, but it's for a major emergency," he adds.

The neighborhood's establishments have also been left without their traditional businesses. At Xavier's favorite restaurant, El Antojo, they make pancakes Japanese, and also a long line: on any given Thursday there are a dozen people standing at the entrance. "Some Russians run it, I was told," he adds. A couple of islands away is the Mercado de la Concepción, which Xavier also frequented. In fact, two years after he moved into his house, in 1979, he started the olive and preserves stand that Joaquim now runs. Back then there were seven businesses, and now only his remains. "She's my mother," he says, looking at the sign on the stand, which reads "Maria Rosa Benet. Olives and Preserves." He's happy because his is almost the only one guaranteed to continue: one of his daughters has already told him she'll continue with the business. It's a weekday morning and it's fairly quiet, but things are going well for him: "Yesterday a woman from Belarus came and took 3.5 kilograms of olives. She comes every year," he explains. She's one of the foreign customers who repeat annually. He's working on David's order, a regular at the stop, who also explains how the area has transformed: "The neighborhood has changed a lot," he says. Coincidentally, he lived near Xavier's house, remembers the corner, and even knew one of the neighbors who had to leave the building. Maybe they were the ones who left for La Verneda. Who knows.

Back in Xavier's building, a premonitory image. "They eat some things that I'm not quite sure what they are," he says, referring to the business that currently occupies the ground floor. It used to be a Galician restaurant and, later, a 24-hour supermarket. Now, yellow letters stamped in the middle of the window say "Funky Eatery." The menu is varied, even culturally: from the Catalan toasted tomato bread, Manchego cheese and Iberian anzuelo until the scrambled eggs with Funky's flute bread.

From the outside, you can see some tables inside, as well as a shop window. It's a nice day, and the glass reflects a fairly full terrace, despite it being an odd hour: one would think it wasn't time for breakfast or lunch. Between these two spaces, tightly attached to the glass, five pots with various plants are catching some of April's first light. At first glance, they don't look native either.