VF1 | The Gate That Closes, the Gate That Opens
When Elias set foot in Lucca, it felt like stepping into a drawing sketched by a visionary and slightly melancholic architect. The round walls, as tall as petrified waves, held the city’s heart with geometric grace, as if every step inside had to follow a secret rhythm. The smooth cobblestones, the ancient wooden doors, the bell towers peeking between red rooftops like still sentinels—everything seemed to wait for the right moment to begin.
He had arrived the evening before, on a slow regional train that meandered through olive groves, hillside villages, and stations with poetic names: Altopascio, Porcari, San Pietro a Vico. Elias had stared out the window with eyes full of questions, not so much searching for answers as for occasions.
He was twenty-three, a philosophy student from Bremen, carrying a backpack that was a little too large and filled with perhaps unnecessary but comforting things: a couple of small books, a steel water bottle, a red notebook, and a fountain pen that leaked ink like a mild wound. He was the kind of person who observed before speaking, and wrote before understanding.
The hostel was tucked within the city walls, on a street where laundry hung between windows like flags of an invisible kingdom. In the courtyard, voices mingled in different accents: Portuguese, English, a perfectly pressed French, a few Korean words whispered like secrets. Fifteen girls and boys from around the world had gathered there, ready to begin a walk along the Via Francigena. No one knew everyone. Some had met once, others only through messages. There were geographers, literature students, tired engineers, illustrators, and quiet hiking enthusiasts. Each carried with them a reason they perhaps couldn’t yet explain.
Elias kept mostly to himself. He introduced himself with a shy “hello.” No one laughed. No one really noticed. Except for a girl sitting on a low stone wall near a fig tree: she was drawing. Her name was Kana, from Tokyo, with eyes like the sea and a quiet way of moving her hands, as if speaking to the paper. She was sketching Lucca’s walls in perspective, but seemed more interested in their shadow than their form.
The next morning, the group gathered beneath Porta Elisa, where the pale stone of the arch filtered the sky like a colander of light. The air smelled of lime trees, of bread just out of the oven, of early coffee from near-empty cafés. A white cat weaved between their backpacks, sniffing everything like a feline customs officer. Lucca, encircled in its perfect geometry, seemed to whisper: stay one more day, there’s no need to leave. But they all knew the journey could only begin by crossing a threshold.
They walked along the top of the city walls, where trees arched overhead and the pinkish pavement seemed to sing beneath their steps. From the bastion, the medieval heart of the city unfolded: hidden courtyards, bell towers, bicycles leaning against rusted railings. Elias walked beside Kana, not knowing if it was by chance or unspoken decision. She kept drawing even in motion, capturing people, perspectives, even fleeting shadows. Every so often, she would stop to stare at a plant growing from a wall, a detail the others missed.
Outside the city, the road turned dusty. The first hills rose soft and wrinkled like scattered blankets. The group began talking about shoes, maps, distances to cover. Someone hummed a tune, others passed around bags of dried fruit.
At one point, Victor—a Frenchman with a painter’s hat and an old analog camera—paused. Just as the last glimpse of Lucca became visible behind them, he turned, lifted the camera, and took a photo.
Click.
Elias, who had noticed that precise moment—the passage between city and countryside, between circle and line—asked him,
“Why now?”
Victor smiled, looking through the viewfinder.
“Because a journey begins only once you’ve looked back.”
Elias nodded. He wasn’t sure he agreed, but he liked the sentence. He jotted it down in his notebook the way one notes a star—not to know where it is, but to remember that it exists.
That evening, the hostel beyond the city was simple: a farmhouse surrounded by fields, low windows, rough linen sheets. They dined around a long wooden table with mismatched chairs. A Brazilian girl, Joana, cooked a tuna and onion pasta that some found delicious and others considered a crime. There was laughter. Nicknames began to emerge. A Scottish guy, Ben, invented a game using Italian dialects he’d learned on TikTok. A girl from Sierra Leone, Fatima, sang softly—something mournful and beautiful, like a prayer for those who leave not knowing if they’ll return.
Before sleeping, Elias opened his notebook. On the first page he wrote:
“Lucca is a perfect circle, a city that invites you to stay. But to start walking, you must leave what wraps around you. The gate that closes behind is the one that opens ahead.”
Then, just below:
“Victor says the journey begins only when you look back. Perhaps he’s right. Or maybe the journey truly begins when you forget where you started.”
He turned off the light. Darkness settled over the bunk beds like a gentle blanket. The fifteen of them slept scattered like unfamiliar constellations: each with their own dream, each awaiting their first true step.
