I read, immersed in dismay, the news of the closing of the Jaguar restaurant, a 90-second walk from the headquarters of this Folha. Temporary temporary closure – depending on the advance or retreat of the ruin in downtown São Paulo.
I don’t have a history with the Jaguar. I’ve only been there once, nothing that made a strong impression. But I have a long history with the center, and it hurts too much to attest that the “revitalization” thing has foundered again.
Ten or 15 years ago, it looked like the center was finally going to take off. The Rueda couple planted their flags in strategic territories and attracted more people to open bars and restaurants in the region.
Even I invested (lost) money in a house that now lies in the purgatory of bad business. We were excited, we wanted to occupy the heart of the city. Cultural turn, music and chemical wine in the veins.
During that manic outbreak on the outskirts of the Republic, Cracolândia was where it had always been, contained, surrounded, monitored, creating pus.
And let the truth be told: not even at the height of the hype did the center stop being filthy, difficult, a little suspicious or downright hostile. When my daughter moved with her friends to Lobster Square, I sighed in helpless resignation.
Then came the decline of a region that never really ascended. The chicken flight from the center of São Paulo was losing support as the country sank into the political, economic and social quagmire.
What resists entertainment in the center is surrounded by the most absolute misery.
The luxurious Priceless restaurant, located on the Chá viaduct, sells glamor to those arriving by armored car through an exclusive access inside the Shopping Light garage. Protected from the homeless from Anhangabaú and their gray blankets smelling of urine.
A few weeks ago, I went with friends to a restaurant on the border of Campos Elíseos and Bom Retiro, one block from where Cracolândia was located. The stream was still there, closed off like wild animals by a police blockade.
So we walked along Rio Branco and Ipiranga avenues until we sat our butts on the sidewalk of a bar on São João – not the most famous one, his neighbor. On the way, we avoided fainting people, their feces and open drains. Apparently, the metal is used as currency to buy crack.
The dispersion of addicts freed up traffic in two blocks near Júlio Prestes, but exposed the entire center to an infection that was previously localized.
The constant migration of the poor devils ended up driving away the clientele of several establishments. The Jaguar, in Duque de Caxias, was a collateral victim of the police operation.
The center of São Paulo is experiencing a social and urban calamity. The center is that it’s just pain and suffering. Its salvation, if there is one, is not simple hygienist measures. And it won’t happen at the turn of Saturday to Sunday.
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