From the Levante region to 'Love Actually'

Seeing the images of the damage the recent storm caused to the Badalona seafront, a friend wrote to me: "Sílvia, where will you walk now?" I replied that I was very upset because, indeed, the section that had become completely impassable was the one a friend and I usually walk along every morning, between Badalona and Montgat. However, as I told my friend, we hadn't done it for days because during the Christmas holidays I sprained my ankle, and it's still bothering me. I took the opportunity to tell him how I did it, because I knew he'd like to hear about it.

One night when I couldn't sleep, I sat in an armchair looking at the tablet Love actuallyA Christmas date I try not to miss. It's a comedy that keeps a smile on your face the whole time and makes you dream that life, the world, humanity, could be different. I was so engrossed that my left leg apparently fell asleep, and when the movie ended, I stood up and my ankle gave way. Instead of Hugh Grant, my son came to my rescue; he heard a thud and found me sitting on the dining room floor.

The friend who had written to me suggested I write an article explaining the anecdote, but when I thought about it, I realized that what I really wanted to explain is that, more than the walk, what I've missed these days is the long daily conversation with my wife. An hour and a quarter to chat is a great way to start the day.

The information about Les Mujeres (S)abuelas (The Grandmothers) got me thinking. This group in Llagostera brings together local women between the ages of sixty-five and ninety-five every week to talk about their lives, share memories, and—very importantly!—record them so they aren't lost.

This municipal initiative helps preserve shared memory, while also allowing participants to exercise their own. And, of course, it's a fun and rewarding way to combat loneliness. For women of all ages, chatting with other women has always been a source of pleasure, enjoyment, and comfort.

I hope many other town councils will follow Llagostera's example. With the memories of the country's older women, we can weave a beautiful quilt of recollections that will allow us to truly understand our small, collective history—the one that doesn't appear in newspapers, the one that happens in home kitchens and at market stalls, at village dances and in libraries, at school gates and in bakeries.

So this year, which has begun with a bang, despite the commuter rail debacle, Trump, and the harsh realities of climate change, I will return—when my sprained ankle allows—to the old habit of walking and chatting. Until they repair the section of the seafront that has been torn to pieces, we will find an alternative route and keep going, trying to protect ourselves from loneliness and yeast.