The way, especially at sunset, is beautiful.  On either side of the road, flat farmland neatly divided into rectangles and rows, spreads from the front doors of houses.  Just behind the houses, large, tree and bamboo covered hills rise one after the other on either side of the long valley.  The approaching town center is announced in subtle ways: the frequency of the road-side vending machines increases, roadside houses start to have signs outside them, presumably restaurants or small shops.  The first sure sign of the center that is noticeable, however, is the spinning golden arches on McDonald's roof, visible from quite a distance.

The town center is much less exciting than I thought it would be.  There's no quaint town green.  A bunch of restaurants, some hair salons.  This is where people come when they want a donut shop, a Baskin-Robbins, a big commercial bookstore, a Big Mac.

The main thing that struck me about the food after reading Fast Food Nation was the idea that the flavor is chemically designed apart from the food.  I don't mind high-fat, high-sodium, nutrient-deficient food sometimes, but I like genuine flavors.  Things like pastry taste amazing, largely because of butter, and that's fine, but why bother eating it if the flavor comes from a test tube?  My Big Mac mostly just made me miss Boston Burger.

Due to a horrible lack of foresight, by the time we left McDonald's the sun had long since set and it was quite dark, but walking back would have taken three hours and probably resulted in frostbite, so we tried to bike it back.  Street lights are rare in Sasayama, so our only light on the sidewalks was that of passing cars.  Thankfully here sidewalks are straight, clean and in good condition, so this was enough to see any dangers ahead, and we made it home without catastrophe.  

Yet never have I pressed my eyes so wide open, for so long struggling to discern something, anything -- a bush, a signpost. The darkness covered me and distanced me from myself, and it was like playing a video game.  I was just pedaling legs, eyes outstretched.

Upon returning I suggested we lie out in the field behind the house and stargaze. It was a clear night, above freezing.  Almost without thought, certainly without pretentiousness.  We didn't speak (once, I sneezed).  At first I wondered if this would be awkward, if perhaps I ought to speak, but soon I forgot about us both.

Perhaps stargazing is not correct.  I watched the sky as intently as I had watched the road, trying to perceive everything.  I watched starts because they were there.  Usually I watch the night sky and wish it were more exciting -- a shooting star could spice things up!  Not tonight.

If I had stopped school after first grade, never knew about outer space and galaxies and all that, I would think we were inside a giant bowl, and that the sky was its lid.  The stars would be tiny holes where the light from God's kitchen sometimes peeks through.  Maybe it's foolish, but I'm realizing I'm quite simple.  I still could gaze for hours in wonder at clouds when I fly above them, amazed clouds even have a top, surprised they are not glued to the sky like a child's bedroom ceiling.

It's difficult to explain why this moment meant so much to me.  Even afterwards it seems suspect.  Maybe the french fries did something to my brain.  I don't know why, but as I lay there, the thought bubbled to the surface of my mind that even if nothing else, it has been worth living every day just so I could get to this moment.  Not because of anyone else or any circumstance in my life.  Not really because of where I am or what I'm doing.  Just me and the sky.

I sneezed and we went inside.