Between History and the Present: The Mansion of Hobi Hostel Boutique

I'm Ricardo, a partner at Hobi Hostel Boutique, and my role here goes beyond the day-to-day. I'm a designer of the lines that shaped the restoration, a researcher of...

Stories echo on the walls, and also a meticulous seamstress crafts the curtains and bed linens that adorn our rooms. Through this space, I share my experiences, a window into how I perceive the world—a perception that led me to historical research. If my voice causes discomfort to anyone, I sincerely apologize in advance.

To you, the reader, I invite you to slow down and reflect. The former residents of the house, with their limited resources and knowledge, did what they could to preserve this home. May we transform the idea of deterioration into an appreciation of resilience: if it weren't for them, perhaps this mansion would have already succumbed to the voracity of real estate speculation.

Part 1 – The First Contact with the Mansion

In 2023, as we crossed the gates of the mansion, a sign awaited us, presenting a fragment of its history:

"The property belonged to Mrs. Maria Cândida de Souza Prado, grandmother of the current owner, Elsa Maria Ferreira da Rocha. This large house, with features of Italian neoclassical architecture, was built by Commander Sintra Gordinho."

As a lover of narratives, the words printed there resonated with me, revealing a story that pulsed beneath the surface. Who was Maria Cândida, beyond the blood tie that united her to Elza (whom I knew personally)? And who might this commander have been, a navigator of a time that no longer exists?

Despite the bubbling questions, I let the story slip away momentarily, absorbing the mix of excitement and wonder that the mansion evoked in every corner. Among majestic doors, soaring ceilings, cluttered rooms, mismatched paintwork, and worn edges, we found square holes beside the doors—requirements from the city hall to allow the gas cylinders to breathe under the hallway.

Descending to the basement, more revelations awaited. The care of Dona Elza, so well-known to all of us born in this neighborhood, had been replaced, in her absence, by mold stains casting shadows across the ceilings, while the fragility of exposed slabs, with rusted ironwork and rooms where, due to the accumulation of so many things, one could only enter through the window. Makeshift bathrooms and jammed windows struggled against the lack of air. Upon opening a door, a cloud of fleas greeted me, emerging from a space that seemed paralyzed in its decay (pots with moldy food and many indistinguishable objects). In this, I found relief in realizing that there were no animals trapped there.

And hoping that the second floor would be a longed-for oasis, I found traps from the past. The large windows, a breath of light and ventilation, couldn't save the scene. The 19th-century ceramic tile roof had been replaced by fiber cement patches, fixed with staples in an improvised attempt to contain costs. The ceiling, a distant memory, gave way to makeshift tarpaulins, as attempts to protect the house against the persistent rain that, with each storm, sought its way in.

The terrace, built in 2019, seemed to promise a new horizon, but, ironically, it sloped inward, allowing rainwater to flood the home. In the kitchen, now a bedroom, the sink was awkwardly placed in the hallway; and the next room, with its enormous cracks, revealed a carefully preserved view of the outside, held captive by a bucket awaiting the rain.

And the bathroom? A picture marked by decay, with makeshift flooring and mold rising from the loose plaster. The large windows, once bearers of light, now faced a climate that wasn't long enough to dry the seeping damp.

The floor, made of rosewood, a wood so precious and impossible to trade these days, was already showing pieces of itself crumbling beneath the rugs so carefully laid by Dona Elza.

I still remember returning to the hostel, which was in another neighborhood, and seeing the expectant faces of the guests, eager to hear the news. All I heard was: Is it that bad?