Our visions of the future today stand on the threshold of a splendid medieval courtyard built to offer hospitality to wayfarers and pilgrims. It stands near a river ford because crossing there was easier, even during floods. We throw open the rear gate of the grand monumental complex, which is usually closed, opened only when the circus troupe – even today – pitches their tent in the field behind it. We take our place beneath the great archway. Limen, not limes. A space of passage, not of exclusion. The countryside is scorching; these are days of fierce heatwave. I am dripping with sweat as I bear witness, moving back and forth across the timeline. But it is a pleasant sensation. Thoughts, voices and gestures soften under the watchful gaze of the many spectators who have gathered. Some of them are called ‘wonderful spectators’ here. They are the most active, present at every opening, at every arrival of foreigners, wayfarers and theatre pilgrims. The radiant women who run the courtyard explain to us that they call them this, playing on the double meaning of the word ‘wonder’: wonder and doubt. The wonder of the theatrical experience and the shared reflection it can inspire. And it really is a marvel to speak with some of them in the communal refreshment area which, after the performance, welcomes us into the large central cloister. They recall the letters we brought here years ago. As I listen to them, I wonder what words they will choose, many years from now, to remember today’s encounter.