This is probably one of the most personal posts I’ve ever written, besides the one on personal crisis.
I’m writing this after spending a few days in Évora, where I graduated as a jazz musician in 2017. The morning after my last day there as a graduate student, after spending the night partying, I packed and never returned until a couple of days ago.
I had a lot of time during the car ride to contemplate why that was, processing different things with my girlfriend serving as conversational partner (as she does, most of the time).
A lot has changed in 7 years. Évora was the city that watched me go through the biggest personal changes, both personal and professional. I arrived in 2014, wanting to become one of the best guitar players in Portugal and left in 2017 with a completely different path in front of me.
I cherish so many different things during those years…
Working with an idol as a mentor (which is something I may not recommend to everyone), enduring extreme levels of stress. Making new friends and losing others. Having a wrist injury, leading to an identity crisis. Abandoning God and finding Him again. Learning how to appreciate wine and to never drink shots immediately after eating cereal.
I got heavily into mysticism and composed hundreds of songs that I threw away, saving a couple of them that functioned as the cornerstone of my compositional style. I laughed a lot and cried a lot. I experienced a loneliness that would eat me from the inside and a connection that made me transcend who I am.
Overall, Évora had a very special place in my heart and maybe I was afraid of going back.
It doesn’t happen often, but some places evoke a specific feeling in me that becomes the foundation for my mood. No matter what I’m going through that day, I know that going to that place will first stir a certain emotion, and the rest of the day’s mood will build on top of that. It won’t be defined by what I’m feeling, but shaped by the initial feeling the place creates.
The feeling I get when I enter the monastery in my hometown is independent from whatever I felt seconds before coming in. If I’m feeling happy, it becomes adjacent to the feeling that that space evokes. The same thing if I’m feeling sad or anxious.
It’s not about the space itself or even its aesthetics. I experienced it the first time I walked the streets of Santiago de Compostela. It just feels a certain way. Évora was one of the places where I felt it most strongly, and I wondered if that feeling had faded over time.
It didn’t fade at all. I experienced the same feeling I had when I lived there, but this time, I decided to take on the challenge of trying to put that feeling into words.
In their joint book The Lessons of History, Ariel and Will Durant explore the challenges of practicing historiography, which is the study of how historians interpret and write about history.
Obviously historiography cannot be a science. It can only be an industry, an art, and a philosophy—an industry by ferreting out the facts, an art by establishing a meaningful order in the chaos of materials, a philosophy by seeking perspective and enlightenment.
Trying to understand the sensation that Évora brings to my life means revisiting the chaos of my own story and identifying the elements that make such a feeling possible. It’s not a “simple” emotion, but a complex one—an amalgamation of feelings and sensations, shaped by all kinds of experiences.
The first thing that comes to mind is the idea of learning, of growth and potential. Not just as a musician, but as a human being.
Living alone for the first time, having to cook my own meals (that version of me would be delighted by how much those skills improved) and manage things at the house, but also navigating friendships being replaced, new experiences as a young man, coming from conversations I had with peers, professors and random people I would meet in bars and cafés.
Umberto Eco, someone I deeply admire, commented on the importance of “Arcades” in the city of Bologna, in an interview he gave a couple of years ago. He saw them as a symbol for connection and the emergence of new ideas.
ECO: (..) I was always happy to teach at the University of Bologna because Bologna is a city with an old historical center made exclusively by arcades. Arcades mean that people, old people but also young people, can walk even if it rains. And under the arcades, there are many restaurants and bars. The students went there, as I did. And I have always appreciated that, in the doctoral dissertations of my students, I found in the footnotes reference to other doctoral dissertations that other students were on the verge of finishing. That meant to me that, at the bar, at the taverns, the students were exchanging ideas. Consider that the same thing happened at the beginning of the European universities in the Middle Ages. There were also songs sung when we were in the tavern. Most of our life was in the tavern. To stay together, to chat, is enormously important. (…)
While walking through the arcades in Évora, I couldn’t help but think about this quote. The clash of new ideas had a profound impact on me—new approaches to music, politics, relationships, life… I still remember, in my first month there, having a few beers and being introduced to Anarchism by a friend, letting it influence my approach to music for a while. I no longer consider myself an Anarchist (and I never truly was, just a misguided kid), but I hold that memory fondly as the beginning of a new era.
This thirst for new ideas and approaches led me to interview a couple of musicians (podcasting way before it was cool) and learning that a particular musician I admired found his inspiration in books. Reading as a mechanism for personal growth, which led to musical growth. The next week, I went to Évora’s public library and got back to reading. Philosophy, classics, both new and old books, my deep passion for reading was alive once again. A lot of ideas that permeate my philosophy are a result of the time I spent in that library.
While growth played a significant role in my relationship with the city, there was also an element of carefree fun. Embracing my bohemian side was, without a doubt, deeply impactful. Life is meant to be enjoyed. You’re meant to have fun, and sometimes, all it takes is a cold beer and some sunlight to gain a new perspective. The food and drinks in Alentejo are impossible to resist and that’s a great thing! Desire and pleasure are key parts of a fulfilling life, and learning how to navigate them is essential. This was something I began to understand in Évora.
There is, however, a darker side to all of this as well.
The truth is, especially during the first year, I experienced intense loneliness. A deep sense of melancholy lingered throughout that time. Of course, part of it was the normal adjustment to a new place, making new friends, and so on. But even when I reached a point where friends would visit, staying for dinner and games, loneliness was still a part of me.
It all came down to my relationship with life itself.
During High School I had developed a very strong relationship with God. During the first year in college, I had a crisis of faith, shaking me to the core. I embraced nihilism and became very critical of anything that was related to spirituality and religion. This very dark view of the world is a strong component of my relationship with the city. Fortunately, even though intense, it didn’t last long.
It changed when someone introduced me to John Zorn and Steve Coleman, two jazz musicians with an extreme spiritual connection with music, through esoterism. I was fascinated by how different they sounded and, as usual, led by my curiosity, I tried to understand what was behind their approach to music.
I had never consciously thought of music as a way to explore the spiritual world (which, in hindsight, seems pretty ridiculous). With that in mind, I began listening for clues on how to approach spirituality through music. This led me down a rabbit hole, reading everything related to spirituality, esotericism, and mysticism. The Jewish Kabbalah, ancient Egyptian texts, manifestos on Satanism, old mystical orders, the mystics of Buddhism and Christianity, the Bible, the Quran— all while listening to these unusual forms of music. I meditated for long periods, experimenting with intense breathing patterns and prayers, eventually concluding that “God,” the concept, permeates everything that exists, manifesting through many different forms. This was probably the most life-changing experience I had in Évora. I see it as something deeply beautiful, but I always remember the origin of it all—the sadness and sorrow that formed this dark place from which this new hope blossomed.
Joseph Campbell, known for his Hero’s Journey theory, wrote that we can a glimpse into the values of a given society or place through the buildings and architecture. This resonates heavily with me and it’s part of my toolset to understand this relationship with Évora. The architecture and building present in the city allow me to pinpoint 3 things that are the final elements of this emotional cocktail.
Évora breathes spirituality, displays classicism and embodies practicality.
The spiritual experience I’ve described wouldn’t have been possible, at least not to the same extent, if I had studied in Lisbon or Porto, two major cities in Portugal. The sheer number of churches, varying in size, the stories of different religious figures who once lived in Évora, and, of course, the Menhir of Almendres, all played a unique role in shaping this experience. The Menhir is an ancient megalithic site, consisting of around 100 standing stones dating back to 6000 BCE, used for rituals and religious functions.
The second value is classicism. Although Évora is a large city, its most meaningful parts are contained within the ancient walls, which are over 2,000 years old, dating back to the Roman occupation. As you move through the city, there’s an unmistakable medieval aesthetic. It’s not just the walls and buildings from that period, but also the highest point in the city, where the Temple of Diana stands. The entire city is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. There’s a deep sense of tradition throughout Évora.
The third and final value is practicality. The city’s design, with its arcades and narrow streets, is meant to provide shade and encourage airflow, helping to combat the extreme heat of Alentejo. Most houses are painted white to reflect the sun, and the arcades serve both aesthetic and functional purposes. When my wrist was injured and I realized I wouldn’t be able to pursue a career as a musician, the entire city inspired me to “figure things out” and approach life from a practical perspective—something that seems obvious in hindsight.
All of these different things combined result in my relationship with Évora.
I once read that you can’t see the full ceiling in the Sistine Chapel with a single look. You need to move your head, and take it in parts, which makes the whole space feel bigger than it is. However, that’s the purpose of that kind of building. They make you feel small, while, at the same time, make you feel part of something bigger.
This is the best way to describe my own relationship with Évora. For that, I’ll be forever grateful.
Love this reflection and history of your time in Évora! I am looking forward to visiting there this spring to check it out. Any recommendations? ;)
This was a beautiful and generous account of your inner journey João. Although I have trouble conceiving of reading everything related to spirituality, esotericism, and mysticism as a rabbit hole. More like door to sanctuary. I also appreciate the introduction to a whole new perspective on the word "arcade" and the purpose that these original arcades served, especially as a facilitators of human connection and dialogue. Substack has some of the vibe for me.