One purely Catalan family remains.
They are old.
They are unhealthy.
She needs dialysis several times a week. He often walks around town with oxygen and more than once the ambulance has taken him out on a stretcher.
Both are short, my height, and that's short.
They've been great neighbors. I put two blue pots on the street, flanking my building's entrance, and filled them with flowers. She watered them with far more love than I gave them when I wasn't there--and sometimes when I was taking pity on them for their derelict mistress.
When the plants died she replaced them with pansies.
They had a family tragedy: their son killed himself in their living room. For a couple of years, although we talked regularly, her smile had been stolen by pain.
Now she's smiling again. We chat repeating, repeating, repeating until we work through my Anglo accent and her Catalan accent.
He burst into laughter when he caught Rick and I kissing at the corner.
She tells me my husband is "beau."
Last Thanksgiving I gave her flowers telling her that it was the day of giving Thanks and I was thankful she was my neighbour. She gave me chocolates for Christmas.
We did have one misunderstanding. My garbage can had disappeared. I asked him if I could use theirs and he said no. I chocked it up to some Catalan not wanting to share garbage thingie.
The next day she was sitting with other mamies, the old Catalan women, friends from childhood who meet on benches in the villages and share wisdom, recipes, gossip.
She saw me and called "coucou" the French word for getting attention. "What did you ask my husband?"
I told her.
She laughed, "Stupid man. He didn't understand so he thought he'd better say no. Of course you can use our garbage can."
Later he apologized.
I responded as I always do. "C'est ma faute. Mon accent est horrible."
Each time I return to Argelès I am relieved that they are still there. They are one of those "gifts" good caring neighbours.
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