In addition to photos by my family and me, this post includes some pictures by Emily Nava.
We visited the Jerónimos Monastery, basically across the street from the Monument of the Discoveries, and artistically a world apart. Construction on the monastery began in 1501 and took 100 years to complete. It’s Gothic to the max, heavily ornamented, every surface decorated—strikingly different from the Monument’s cleaner lines.
And yet not a world apart after all; the monastery was funded by taxes collected from Portuguese traders who traveled to India.
It’s a stunning building, and it seems to go on forever. It has cloisters and corridors and little chapels all over the place. At times I thought I had lost everyone, and then heard their voices from a spot I hadn’t realized was even accessible.
The stonework was mindbending. I found myself gawking at the skill, the detail, and the small inconsistencies that showed each human hand that crafted it.
The monastery was only minimally damaged in the 1755 earthquake, luckily. It’s one of the few structures in Lisbon that is this old.
A rainstorm was just beginning as we waited in line to enter, picking up as we moved through the space. Thanks to this, I got to see something entirely new to me. I’ve read that gargoyles were used in place of downspouts to deal with water running off of roofs, but I had never before seen this in action. It was very fun and lively. What a random piece of whimsy, to take the time to carve these funny monsters to spit rain.
The cloisters were quiet in the rain, despite there being a lot of people visiting the monastery. I could easily imagine the hush of monks moving through the halls.
In the refectory, the walls had tiled panels depicting the story of Joseph and his brothers. I wondered why that story was the one selected for the monks to contemplate as they ate their meals, but haven’t been able to find any further information. Is that a common tale for dining halls? Be grateful you have bread and don’t have to go begging to the brother you sold to slave traders?
Besides being an architectural marvel, the monastery is the final resting place of Fernando Pessoa, a Portuguese poet. I didn’t know his work until Emily shared some on our trip, but I want to close with a selection.
This modern poet, buried among the Gothic arches, feels like another echo across the street.
The Herdsman
By Fernando Pessoa
Translated By Edouard Roditi
I’m herdsman of a flock.
The sheep are my thoughts
And my thoughts are all sensations.
I think with my eyes and my ears
And my hands and feet
And nostrils and mouth.
To think a flower is to see and smell it.
To eat a fruit is to sense its savor.
And that is why, when I feel sad,
In a day of heat, because of so much joy
And lay me down in the grass to rest
And close my sun-warmed eyes,
I feel my whole body relaxed in reality
And know the whole truth and am happy.
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