"A bit of (my) history is gone": 1st day without an elevator

Manuel and Domingos no longer pass through the Lisbon area between Restauradores and Bairro Alto as often as they used to, but they still left their homes and headed to the spot they'd passed many times on their way to work or when meeting friends. Few traces of the accident remain on the steep street, but two glaring absences: 140 years later, there are no carriages in sight.

To pay tribute to the monument, Domingos, after taking the bus and metro, bought two roses, one red, “for the blood that was spilled,” and another yellow, the color of the elevators, to see “if the elevators come back again,” he tells Observador.

Unlike the man who began seeing the trams with his father when he was nine years old, most people who live nearby, especially in Bairro Alto, prefer not to return to the area, unable to imagine that street without the hustle and bustle that has characterized it since 1885.

"I haven't been there [to see the street], and I don't want to! I don't want to go, I don't even want to pass by," confesses Fernanda, who lives on a street parallel to Calçada da Glória. She used the elevator occasionally, but the noise and the disappearance of traffic are impossible to ignore. Some also say they'll never be able to get on one of those vehicles again: "I took the elevator on Tuesday... It was my last day! I'll never ride again. No way," Helena laments as she walks the streets of Bairro Alto.

And everyone interviewed by Observador emphasizes that the 16 people who died, the dozens who were injured, and the families of all the victims in the accident that occurred on Wednesday afternoon are on their minds. "[When I found out] I thought, 'Wow, it happened late in the afternoon!' I was like, 'It could have happened to me!'" says Maria da Conceição, a Brazilian who has also lived in Bairro Alto for several years.

Those who travel along the Elevador da Glória route hear more foreign languages ​​than Portuguese. Among the 16 fatalities in the accident, eleven were foreigners, of eight different nationalities. But four other people were Portuguese, in addition to brakeman André Marques.

“We lost colleagues with whom we shared our mission.” The Santa Casa de Lisboa employees who died in the Elevador da Glória

Four workers at the Santa Casa da Misericórdia de Lisboa (SCML) died while traveling on a routine commute for employees. The SCML acknowledged that this "means of transportation is frequently used by many of those who work at this institution."

Like them, many other Portuguese used the funicular to get home or to work. Maria da Conceição was an example of this: living in Bairro Alto for a few years, she would head to the stop early, around 7:30 a.m., and walk down to Restauradores, where she would catch a subway. At the end of the day, she would repeat the process in reverse.

Her routine made her very close to the brakemen, especially the "two ladies" she encountered most often and chatted with during the journey. Therefore, as soon as she heard about the accident, she panicked, thinking one of them might be among the victims. "I was more likely to be around the female drivers, who were very good. We'd chat in the morning, also with other people who were getting in to get off, to go to work. And I was wondering, 'Could something have happened to them?'"

Now, he admits that on some trips—"two or three times"—he felt the elevator shaking more and a strange sound "as if something was jamming," but that it was quickly resolved and he didn't dwell on it for long. After the tragedy, he admits it's normal to remember these situations. Elaine, a friend and compatriot who has lived in Bairro Alto for over eight years, admits the sadness of seeing the street empty: "It's like having a monument and suddenly having it taken away. I saw the report [of the removal], it was as if they were taking a person."

On the streets of Bairro Alto, every resident has something to say about the Elevator, which made access to that historic area, especially for those coming from Baixa, faster and more comfortable. They draw, however, a distinction between the (more distant) past and the present (prior to the accident), noting a clear increase in tourist demand, which has driven many people away. "I used to ride the tram in the 70s. I was a kid, it's part of people's lives," says a man, who prefers to remain anonymous. Now, "it's a tourist attraction," he laments, before returning to humming songs while resting his arm on a stationery store stand in Largo Trindade Coelho, just a few meters from the entrance to the SCML.

Already long, steep, and difficult, the climb from Restauradores to the São Pedro de Alcântara viewpoint becomes even longer when taken via the parallel and winding access roads, as Calçada da Glória has remained closed to traffic since the afternoon of the accident. Domingos Bruno is one of those who, driven by nostalgia for the tram that was part of his life, defies exhaustion to reach the top. "I used to love riding this, and now it's cost me too. A piece of me and my history has been lost, I think. It's a little bit of our history, and I hadn't seen anything like it until today," he laments.

At the beginning of the street, where journalists and tourists gather, there's activity, but it's "nothing like" what it used to be. The curiosity about the tragedy doesn't compare to the activity generated by the elevator. "We look over there and see some [Carris] trucks carrying rubble; it's not the same," he explains.

In the past, Domingos would pass by the place frequently, and even when he wasn't taking the elevator, he would "walk up and down" the street "for pleasure." Even without the intention of visiting a specific place, he would go with friends to see the action, as he did this Friday, but without the trams. "Come on, today I've relived my longing."

Manuel doesn't live nearby either, and he no longer walks along that sidewalk like he used to on his way to work. "I live on the south bank [of the Tagus], but I worked in Bairro Alto for several years," so I walked up the street every day and "took the tram every now and then." For him, and for "the people who live nearby," it makes an "impression." "It's been a hundred and something years, it's always been here, it's tough," he laments as he watches Carris employees work after having crossed the river on purpose to see the street in its unusual state.

Without forgetting the tragic deaths, he says that now residents, mostly elderly people struggling with the pressure of housing prices, will have to take a long detour, or climb the steep street, to get home. Still, he emphasizes that "the tram's main attraction, at this time, is tourists."

Bag of food in hand, Ana Rosa slowly walks up the street looking for the friends she abandoned in recent days due to the security perimeter. "I've been coming here for many years to feed the kittens. I used to come many times a day. I used to come twice. Then I only came once." Over the years, she stopped taking the elevator to Largo da Oliveirinha, where she leaves food and water for the felines.

"It's really hard for me to get on the elevator now because I have a knee problem." Since Wednesday, because "the police were there and to avoid bothering me, because they usually have orders not to let anyone through, and I'm stubborn," she stopped using the elevator. This Friday, she realized she could get through and returned.

"They were already used to [the elevator], because they were born and raised here. They won't be surprised by [its absence], because the less noise, the better, as they don't like noise very much. But for them, it was already familiar." But the problem, he continues, is not the absence of the elevator, but rather "the people who went."

Near where Mimi and the other cats eat and drink, there's a small Carris warehouse, which supports tram maintenance and where Ana Rosa witnessed, as she makes a point of emphasizing several times, the near-constant inspections of the carriages. "I know they stopped the elevators here every day, right here where they stopped, inspected, opened, and closed them."

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On the way, the cat sitter crosses paths with a public transportation employee. Briefly acknowledging her complicity in the tragedy, Ana Rosa reiterates that he and other gentlemen do a good job. Emotionally, the Carris worker recalls the accident: "I had ridden the elevator ten minutes earlier." He also explains that he had arranged to have coffee with the brakeman who transported him after his shift ended. Shortly after, he learned of the derailment and, perplexed, rushed to the spot where André, the colleague with whom he had arranged to have coffee shortly before, would eventually die . "When I arrived, the dust was still in the air."

"I cried so much, it was tragic," says Helena, who used the elevator several times to get to and from downtown. "Lisbon is going to be very poor. It was a symbol, that elevator was a symbol of the city." Even today, she says, she still doesn't seem to have fully grasped what happened. "It seems excessive, like a dream. It's something so strange that it doesn't seem real. There's been an accident or two, but it was a minor thing that was resolved. Now, like this... There are no words."

Domingos, who also climbed the entire route, continues to stare into space. "It's far from my door, but it's something that hurts me, and I think it hurts everyone. It was something that wasn't unique to Lisbon. (...) Just because one swallow dies doesn't mean spring ends... but this wasn't just one swallow. It hurts a lot."

At the top of Calçada da Glória, he can more calmly gaze down the street that slopes down into the distance. There, with tourists taking photos of the flowers along the perimeter—some like the yellow ones Domingos left at the beginning of the street—he contemplates the tracks that once took him to Bairro Alto for drinks with friends. There, motionless and oblivious to the passing tourists, he takes off his hat, kneels, and crosses himself. Without saying a word, he puts his cap back on and discreetly leaves the scene.

While there are those, like Domingos, who sought to visit the site to see what they had never seen before and pay due tribute, there are those who can't be so close to the street without remembering the tragedy that befell Lisbon. "I don't even want to go there. I was watching TV when I heard it. I said, 'Oh my God!' I had just gotten home, I was in the living room, I sat down on the sofa, and I started crying," describes Fernanda, who, with the help of a friend, carries groceries from the supermarket to the house where she has lived for 50 years. She admits, once again, that "until they get the trams there," she won't have the courage to go to Calçada da Glória.

Helena shares a similar idea, going even further: "I took the elevator on Tuesday, then took the train to Sintra. It was my last day! I'm never going to walk again. I don't want to. Absolutely not. I already have a phobia of certain forms of transportation." Maria da Conceição can't be so definitive, but she also admits that she has no intention of doing so any time soon. "Right now, I wouldn't [walk again], especially because I often imagined [an accident] coming down. I even commented to my grandson: 'Have you ever thought that if this thing derails here, it'll go down, down, down all the way to Restauradores. It'll be a disaster.'"

At the counter of a butcher shop they've owned for decades in Bairro Alto, Jorge and Clara discuss the disaster with customers, and the butcher recalls similar comments from his Brazilian neighbor. "I told my friends that if he went off the rails, we'd only sit at Condes," he says, recalling the old days when the building that now houses Hard Rock was once occupied by Cinema Condes, in Restauradores.

At that time, the tram was already very popular, they say, but mostly with Portuguese people, especially workers. "I remember riding the elevator as a child, and there was nothing dangerous, nor was there the noises that there are now. Two months ago, I went down with my husband, and I told my husband, who warned me that the tram was making a strange noise. You could hear "pim, pim, pim," like an iron hitting the floor," Clara recalls.

Still, Jorge says there's no need to stop using vehicles, as long as they're properly maintained. "People have been crashing all along. Car accidents happen every day. But people won't stop driving."

Two days after the accident, the surrounding area where the Glória funicular once passed bore few traces of the tragedy that killed 16 people. After the carriages were removed overnight, one of the only signs remaining embedded in the sidewalk were the large holes in the ground.

To resolve this problem, five members of a Carris team arrived at Calçada da Glória at 10:20 a.m. this Friday to fill the potholes. However, they noticed that although safety barriers were still in place, the police were no longer there. Afraid of breaking any rules, the team waited. After making a call to confirm they could pass the barriers, they entered in an open-top truck and drove up the street to the curve where the accident occurred.

In the van, they carry shovels, pickaxes, and brooms, which they use to clear the debris and remove the most damaged rails, which are unlikely to be repaired. Later, the Lisbon Firefighters arrive to finish the cleanup. At the intersection of Calçada da Glória and Rua da Glória, the workers' mobilization is clearly visible, in a part of the street with few homes—there are a few hotels, a building under construction, and another that belonged to a technology company. Soon, another hotel will be renovated.