In the summer we met at the halfway point station between our homes, somewhere still new to me. I had to check the route as I was still unfamiliar with the city, but finding undiscovered experiences inside each place. Through the shop-lined streets and the smoke from bars, we found a small shrine atop a tiny hill surrounded by trees. A highway was wrapped around the bottom of one side, and a steel bridge for the bullet trains reaching over the treetops on the other. A few people were visiting the shrine, but they soon disappeared, letting the silence enter the sanctuary with the soft afternoon breeze. Making our way down the hill beside the bridge, down the river-long stone steps leading to the water's edge, people ran in the summer air, their voices echoing throughout and across the riverbanks. We finally settled on a spot on the stone stairway, with riverside bushes to our backs, the bridge to our left, and the sunset to the west over and down the river. We brought out our picnic dinner, the plastic containers I had bought just the day before, and picnicked on the shores of the river. Under the orange sunset, cameras on the ground, this memory remaining for that place too, not just us. It stays there in the wind, in the green of the trees, and the swirls of the river, just as it does in our hearts and minds. These places may seem ordinary, but with them we share all experiences.