metropolitan cloisters

Ever walked into a dream only to realize you’re still wide awake—or maybe still half-asleep on a GO Train after too much Timmies? That’s the exact headspace you land in the second you cross the threshold of the metropolitan cloisters. Tucked way up in Fort Tryon Park—like, *way* north, past where the Manhattan grid gives up and nature takes over—this isn’t your average museum. Oh no. It’s more like a medieval time machine built from real monastic ruins shipped over from France, assembled with the care of someone piecing together their nan’s old china after a kitchen mishap. The metropolitan cloisters feel like New York’s secret apology for all that honking and hustle: quiet, ancient, and weirdly soul-soothing—kinda like finding a hidden trail in Algonquin Park when you thought you were just taking out the recycling.

“How long to see the metropolitan cloisters?” people ask, clutching their fancy oat-milk lattes like they’re holding the Stanley Cup. Truth is, it all depends on how deep you wanna go. Most folks knock it out in 1.5 to 2 hours, but if you’re the type who stops to squint at how the autumn light hits a 12th-century capital or gets totally zoned out watching the unicorn chase its own tail in those legendary tapestries—you might be there ‘til dinner. And that’s fair. The metropolitan cloisters aren’t clocking out anytime soon. They’ve been chillin’ since the Middle Ages; another hour ain’t gonna kill ‘em, eh?

Sure, the big Met downtown’s got Van Gogh and pharaohs in gold, but the metropolitan cloisters? They deal in whispers, not fireworks. If we had to pick one showstopper, it’s gotta be The Hunt of the Unicorn—seven woven panels that blend mystery, romance, and spiritual symbolism like a medieval Netflix series. These aren’t just wall hangings; they’re storytelling on silk, wool, and silver thread. And the way the metropolitan cloisters display ‘em? Like they’re relics in a cathedral, not artifacts behind glass. You don’t just look—you *feel* it, like you’ve wandered into a monk’s daydream.

Heck yeah they do! Your general admission to The Met—whether you paid the full suggested price (about CAD 30 if you’re not from around these parts) or slid in on that sweet “pay-what-you-can” deal—gets you into the metropolitan cloisters too. No upcharge, no bouncer in chainmail, no secret password like “poutine.” It’s all one museum family—just stretched across boroughs like an old wool sweater that’s seen better days but still fits perfect. Bonus: barely anyone makes the trek uptown, so it’s basically like having the Louvre to yourself on a Tuesday in February.

Here’s the kicker: the metropolitan cloisters aren’t a knockoff—they’re the real deal, rebuilt like a jigsaw puzzle made of centuries-old stone. Architect Charles Collens didn’t just dream this place up; he literally shipped over cloister bits from Saint-Michel-de-Cuxa, Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert, and Bonnefont-en-Comminges. Each courtyard’s got its own rhythm—some feel like you’re in a sun-drenched Provençal monastery, others like you’re hiding out in a snowy Pyrenean abbey. The carvings? Gargoyles smirking, saints weeping, vines twisting like they’ve got places to be. It’s all original, all lovingly reassembled—and somehow, it breathes. Like those old barns in rural Ontario that creak with stories.

Spring’s pretty, sure—but autumn? That’s when the metropolitan cloisters really shine. Late October hits like a warm Nanaimo bar on a rainy day: the gardens blaze in rust, amber, and burnt sienna, the Hudson River below gleams like a freshly polished loonie, and the air smells like woodsmoke and apple pie. Fewer crowds, too. You can sit in the Cuxa Cloister, listen to the fountain trickle, and pretend you’re a monk copying psalms instead of doomscrolling on your phone. And that golden-hour light through the stained glass? Pure magic—like the aurora borealis decided to throw a medieval rave.

There’s something about old stone—it holds memory better than any cloud backup. The metropolitan cloisters aren’t just pretty; they’re soaked in centuries of quiet devotion, plague years, pilgrimages, and peace. Stand in the Fuentidueña Chapel (that dramatic Spanish apse), and you can almost hear the low hum of evening prayers. Run your hand along the Bonnefont steps, and you’re walking the same path as sandal-clad monks who never saw a snowplow—let alone a Leafs game. It’s not sad; it’s sacred. The metropolitan cloisters remind us that sometimes the deepest beauty is in stillness: moss on limestone, the pause between chapel bells, a single fern unfurling in a walled garden like it’s got all the time in the world.

Everyone’s obsessed with the unicorns—and fair enough—but don’t sleep on the small wonders. The metropolitan cloisters are full of pocket-sized miracles: a griffin-shaped aquamanile you could’ve poured holy water from, ivory combs etched with Bible scenes, crosses that glint like they’ve caught lightning. And while the Mérode Altarpiece lives downtown, up here you might catch a glimpse of pages from the Belles Heures—illuminated like the artist just put down the brush five minutes ago. These weren’t “art” back then; they were used, held, prayed over. That lived-in warmth? That’s what the metropolitan cloisters do better than anyone.

Most museums lock their treasures behind glass. The metropolitan cloisters? They grow theirs. Their gardens are living history—planted only with plants known in medieval Europe: rosemary for remembrance, sage for healing, lilies for purity. No petunias, no geraniums from your aunt’s cottage porch—just species with centuries of street cred. The Bonnefont Garden alone’s got over 250 types, each tagged with its Latin name and what a 12th-century apothecary would’ve used it for. It’s part garden, part time machine. And in summer? The air smells like a blend of monastery herb shelf and a troubadour’s love letter—earthy, sweet, and just a little bit mystical.

Look, New York’s got its hits—Broadway, bagels, that one hot dog vendor who’s been there since the Mesozoic—but the metropolitan cloisters offer something you can’t buy with a subway token: peace with depth. It’s not just “that museum up by the park.” It’s a sanctuary where your phone stops buzzing and your brain finally exhales. Whether you’re a history nerd, an art lover, or just over the whole “concrete jungle” thing, the metropolitan cloisters greet you like your favourite cabin in Muskoka after a long winter. And hey—if you’ve read this far, consider it your official nudge. Swing by SB Contemporary Art, explore the View section for more deep dives, or lose yourself in another gem like Cloister Met Gothic Treasures Await. Trust us—you’ll walk out feeling like you’ve stolen a little piece of stillness for the road home.

References

• https://www.metmuseum.org/visit/plan-your-visit/met-cloisters
• https://www.nytimes.com/2023/04/15/arts/design/met-cloisters-guide.html
• https://www.smithsonianmag.com/travel/met-cloisters-medieval-art-nyc-180979845/
• https://www.timeout.com/newyork/museums/the-met-cloisters