If you are coming for the first time, this is your only chance to approach the city.
If you are coming for the second or third or __ time, this is your last uncanny chance not to turn your back.
Decide a certain day. This is what you have to do on that day.
Wake up around six in the morning. The sky is half dark, half light. I know with this kind of weather waking up is the last thing you want to do. There is no lull as slumberous as autumn. But get up, get out of your cozy lodging. At this hour only a handful of people is awake, the narrow streets are wide with emptiness, the benches are wet with the shadows of anonymous encounters, the windows are typically shut to keep love happening elsewhere, and there’s a chance that the city will say Yes to you.
Go around. Don’t think of anything, not what you have in mind to do that day; don’t think of anyone, not your dreams, not even poetry. Walk for the sheer pleasure of walking. Because you have two legs. Because to walk is to live said that master wanderer, Thoreau. When you walk you are untamed, somehow you are free.
Where to go?
Turn your head to the direction of a far-off hill. That is to say, anywhere.
I wished you bring a light overcoat with which you can keep your hands warm in its side pockets. The morning breeze can be icy and harsh and you might catch cold.
Go skyward towards the walls. Walk at least half of the walls circumference. Walk with a slowness of one walking underwater, of one who has another century to live. Remorseless slowness is the first virtue the city demands of the visitor. Because all beautiful things are slow. Head south or head west, either way you’ll be accompanied by voluminous trees. Oak, sycamore, chestnut, lime, linden, pine trees—memorize their names so you don’t feel too alone. Touch each one of them. Observe how no two leaves are the same; each tree has its smell, its color, its particular texture of the bark, every bit is engaging to the senses. If you’ve never been dazzled by a tree remember that it could be the one you’re touching now has been there for centuries long before your grandparents were born. Every standing tree on the wall is an epic story of the city.
The city is waking up. Do you hear it? Listen carefully, patiently. Shopkeepers are raising their heavy metal doors, fruits and vegetables arrive in the market, a cleaning truck swerves around the corner, a bicycle speeds up past you, bell-towers strike, the birds, so many of them, enforce their buoyancy all over the city in order to give each inhabitant every chance of achieving lightness, and the velvety whistle of a fountain calms your unrecognized sorrow.
Walk down the path into the city. You will find yourself in some narrow street, maze-like, maybe romantic, but not nostalgic. You’ve never been here before : if you feel at home you’re lost, if you’re lost you are home. A lady with a dog walks by. Plants on terracotta pots on balconies, the dim lights in antique shop windows, pretty teenagers strolling, old men gathering in squares, and the hundredth church you’ve seen that morning. Keep walking because you haven’t seen enough, keep surrendering to the streets until you ache for them.
The sky is changing colors. The autumn mood is transferred with poignancy and drowsiness to the lingering café chairs and tables outside. You begin to smell the smell of the morning. And on every misty shop window there is the temptation to write someone’s name or to draw a heart with your cold finger. A little hunger awakes on your tongue.
Turn to the corner where the irrepressible perfume of oven-fresh croissant emerges from a café. You have come this far, the smell says. The distant rattle of the coffee machine says, enter, enter, whoever you are. Between calm and excitement enter the café as though it is the most important place in the world. Greet the bartender as though he/she is the one. Here we are. Sit. Eat. Drink the cup of coffee of this side of the world. Smile quietly to yourself. Here I am. No other drink strings up the soul to a high pitch. Look out the window unblinkingly. You will look at things with a different eye. Wondering aloud something has just happened to you in sunrise. Something which never happened before.
As the pale light spreads across the city you forget yourself. There is no word for that. The world is mysteriously homely despite all the cruelties you have and have not witnessed. You are filled with an epic gratitude and there is no word for that. Count that as a miracle.
If you can, do not return.
If you cannot, come back soon!
Note: The wonderful photographs featured on this page are scenes from Lucca captured by Ricardo Grande. If you want to see more images of Lucca follow Ricardo on Instagram https://www.instagram.com/pambihirang_dongskie/?hl=en
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