A disorderly frenzy, captive to the rush that fades in the alternation between the narrow sidewalk and the uneven floor of the street. The Carreira street is drawn as an infinite line, a broken spear crossing the heart of the city. It is said that its layout follows the distant memory of feats and exhibitions on horseback, when the primitive Funchal community was outlined in legends of small heroes. Carreira: dedicated in haste from its first moment to the last step of each evening. Under the proud shade of old mansions, somewhere between the opaque terraces and the careless yellowing of an old appliance store, the persistent echo of an entrepreneurial spirit that neither excuses nor hides itself. And in the background, at the tavern that hides from the moderate tones of fashion, Mr. Mendes’ rounded silhouette serves as a landmark at the door of friendly reunions, where a generation lets itself be in the solemn contemplation of a time that no longer belongs to them. The street continues in its own scars, not rejecting old-age nor hiding its perpetual amazement. Reinventing itself, being sculpted by a handful of eyes too absorbed in a stubborn idea of final destination. It is a place of passage, a high sea in this universal demand for some port of refuge. Thus, without justification, life emerges on each bare and exposed surface as a kind of soft mark of time, transforming the smallest street parallel into an improbable heritage of all Mankind.
