The decline of the invisible profession: "In the upper-class neighborhoods, you notice classism more."

BarcelonaAre there few doormen and doorwomen left? It's clearly a job in decline, with no generational success and little demand. But the trade is still alive. In big cities, many properties still require maintenance and surveillance. And a new need created by our digital times: receiving the huge amount of packages we buy online day in and day out. The goalkeeper, previously always wearing the typical blue work coat—some can still be seen—and the doorwoman, still having to endure the unfair stigma of being a chatterbox and a voyeur. A shadowy profession, rife with stigma and classism, a demanding profession that can also be a beautiful and rewarding job. Two doorwomen and two doormen from Barcelona tell us about their lives.

Marina Solano

On the day of the big blackout, Marina saw that the power had come back on at the Caprabo on Córcega Street, and immediately, without even having to be there, she knew it was back in her building too. "We have the same line!" A small, seemingly trivial detail, but one that reveals how well someone who loves their job knows their neighborhood. Marina Solano has been the doorman at 127 Rambla de Catalunya since 1987, and it's a pleasure to witness the enthusiasm with which all the building's residents greet her. "They love me very much; they're all very good people." In addition to being a doorman, she's also a neighbor. The oldest on the stairs. She lives on the fourth floor and feels like one of them, respected and loved. Her daily habitat is the small square meters of her ground-floor apartment, where she skims several newspapers every day, but they seem too small for her, and she can't stop thinking about the street and, as much as possible, participating in a bit of neighborhood life at the same time. Of course, she's attentive to each and every one of her daily tasks. The most important ones are being there for anyone who arrives, delivering the mail, taking in packages, and, most importantly and surely the most gratefully received, greeting the neighbors and chatting with them. "Hi Marina, how are you feeling? Do you want some chocolate?" "I'm being interviewed; I'm very important." I've seen her up and down the sidewalk for years—we live several doors away—and I hadn't noticed her sense of humor and friendliness.

She grew up in the Guinardó neighborhood, and at fourteen she began working as a dressmaker's apprentice at Pertegaz. She became a journeyman and remained at the great couturier's historic headquarters on Diagonal until she was twenty-two, when she became independent and set out on her own. In 1972, her mother received the offer to take over the doorman's lodge on Rambla de Catalunya. They first lived in a flat on the roof and later on the fourth floor. When her mother retired in 1987, she was asked to take over the vacant position, and she accepted the challenge. It's been almost forty years in a trade she masters and loves. "There isn't much succession for this profession," Marina admits. She has an important advantage: a job and a flat in the same building, a situation that is becoming increasingly rare. She still has plenty of time for days and isn't thinking about retirement; she has the desire, strength, energy, and determination to continue working. It's an eight-hour day. From 8:30 a.m. to 1:00 p.m. and from 4:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m. The batteries never end at Marina Solano. Always up and down, always ready to lend a hand, always ready for the heartbeat of her beloved adopted neighborhood.

Paco Sánchez

For twenty years, he's been the doorman at 6 Lluçanès Street, popular for his friendliness, availability, and helpfulness. His name is Paco Sánchez, who had been a lathe operator but had to quit due to a skin problem. He was lucky; his father-in-law worked as a plumber for Bonanova, and he learned that the goalkeeper at the Versalles building was retiring. Paco was offered the job, and he accepted without hesitation, despite his lack of familiarity with the trade. But he quickly became attached to the project and is today an essential part of the large neighborhood. "Having a home in your own building is very important, a huge advantage," he emphasizes. "Can I give myself a little medal?" "Yes, of course!" "I'm very helpful, and people like that." This is undoubtedly a key factor in the excellent integration Paco quickly enjoyed with the neighbors. The tasks are the classic ones: cleaning and maintaining the common areas, monitoring and securing the building, repeating mail and newspapers, and, more recently, a classic: delivering parcels. Many orders arrive every day, never falling below thirty or forty, which means additional workload, a requirement to be on top of things at all costs, since online purchases are becoming more common every day and receiving, of course, is very important.

Satisfactory experiences? Well, some classics. The neighbor who forgets their keys and asks him to open the door to the apartment with the ones he's guarding. The day a neighbor came over wearing pajamas because he'd gone out to take out the trash, the door accidentally locked on him, and, of course, the keys were inside the apartment. Or the weekend a neighbor was locked in his house and Paco had to leave a wedding for a few hours to come open the door for him. "It's satisfying to see the feeling of relief that spreads across their faces." The squatted houses El Kubo and La Ruina are right across the street. The days of the eviction were intense, and Paco had his share of headaches. "Those people didn't bother anyone, and there weren't many problems. I get the feeling that wasn't explained very well."

Is the profession dying out? "I wouldn't say that much, but the number of doormen and doorwomen is dropping significantly." The doorman in the building next door retired, and they didn't hire another one. They don't need him; they don't really care. And the neighborhood? "La Bonanova has lost some of its cachet. Look at the awnings on that building over there; they're very neglected." At first, they made him work clothes; now they don't need them anymore. Paco's son fills in for him some times, especially in the summer. He feels very loved and respected. A doorman incurs expenses, that's clear, but if the professional is good, it's worth it and compensates. A doorman must also be something of a psychologist, understand the mood and character changes of the neighbors, and model character and patience. You have to be careful with older people, who are later the most grateful and generous.

Juan Medina

Juan, in his native Chile, worked in a supermarket. Too much stress, a tense country, and limited prospects. In 2006, a trip to Barcelona excited him, and he decided to try his luck. He did everything: painter, removal man, flyer distributor, kitchen assistant, and infrastructure installer at the Circ du Soleil. "It's hard to get opportunities, to get people to trust you, to overcome their suspicions about the newcomer." He has his wife and daughter back home, and the distance was tough, especially at first: "The first Christmas and New Year's I cried a lot, but the second one less." He travels whenever he can to see them. In fact, when I visit him, he's only recently returned from his Chilean vacation. "In Chile, there's a lot of classism, which is why we always address everyone formally," he explains. At 48 Travessera de Gràcia, he started cleaning, then substituted in another building, and then was offered a return to Travessera to become the official doorman. Fifteen years ago. "In the upper-class neighborhoods, you notice more of the classism of the people; here where I am now, there's much more friendliness." The building's neighbors are very diverse, from conventional homes to professional offices of lawyers and doctors. Everyone has their own personality, everyone is as they are; they say hello or they don't, but nothing is personal. Juan is clear about this. He's learned the nuances and requirements of the job well. "You know who to greet, who to ask. And who it's better not to say anything to at that moment. And above all, you know when to keep quiet." The elderly greatly appreciate being asked how they are, how they're feeling. There are also visitors who are asked where they're going and become uncomfortable. Controlling who comes in, who goes out, who moves in, and who leaves. And the student apartments, of course. All this with discretion and kindness, without being invasive, but always giving the impression of control of the situation. "Everyone has my phone number; it's public." Thirty-two floors and a president on the stairs. "Everyone is my boss." If it's a good idea to take packages, go ahead. If it's a good idea to put food orders in the fridge, go ahead. Talk about football, as many as you need. About the day's news, if it's good, even better. And about the weather, it never fails. "Being a goalkeeper is a chance to learn a lot about people, about how fast our world moves, about how young people don't talk much and older people still need the warmth of others. A very good experience."

Josefa Domènech

Pepi Bauló visits the concierge at 119 Aribau Street. The wooden door she remembers so much from her childhood is still there. She's allowed to visit the common areas, and she recognizes some images from her childhood. His granddaughter now lives where Mr. Rocamora lived. The concierge was in a semi-basement. The stairs leading down are still there. Pepi's mother, Josefa Domènech, was the concierge from approximately 1968 to 1971. Unforgettable years. Today I visit mother and daughter in their beloved Santa Coloma apartment, which, after years in Barcelona, ​​welcomed the family, and they have never left. Josefa remembers those years as a wonderful experience. Coming from Gandesa, she had the opportunity to run a concierge at a time when her husband's job—Jaume Bauló, a metalworker at La Maquinista—was plagued by political and union turmoil, and working in the concierge meant good support. Mother and daughter show me photos from those times. A warm, neighborly atmosphere, children playing in the street and on the rooftop, and family nearby. Josefa's brother was the caretaker of a nearby property, in Londres, in Muntaner. Having siblings and cousins ​​nearby provided a valuable family atmosphere.

Cleaning the stairs, collecting the trash, keeping watch, and running errands for the neighbors. Whether it was an urgent trip to the pharmacy, to buy bread, or to the "mantequerías" next door to do the shopping. The hardest part, without a doubt, was cleaning the marble stairs from top to bottom. The mop didn't exist yet, and it had to be done on your knees or crouched down. Josefa's memories are fond: "The neighbors treated us very well; there was a good atmosphere, and they loved us very much." She doesn't remember her exact salary, but she does remember the envelope of bills the solicitor gave her each month. At that time, tips and first-timers were very common, popular songs. Christmas bonuses Christmas or special holidays. Oh! And babysitting was also common; neighbors would let their children stay, and the party on the rooftop was guaranteed. The job as a caretaker allowed the family to have a home while they searched for a small, affordable apartment. Opportunity came in neighboring Santa Coloma in 1971. There, life changed: more peace of mind at her father's job, and as for Josefa, she became a housewife, or, as they used to say, "her chores." But the years on Aribau Street are unforgettable. The great Marisa Paredes was always proud of being the daughter of a caretaker and always said it with her head held high. It's exactly the same with Pepi.