When I open my closed eyes in the attic above the old garage
In the black sky, stars are pouring down… .

Watsonville, a quiet rural town in the American West
A small diary written in the starlight there

Long trips are in vogue.
People are fascinated by travel that has a timeframe, whether it's a month or a year, but not right now.
The author, who admired Thoreau's Walden, also had the opportunity to go on a long journey by chance.
I ended up staying in Watsonville, a rural town in the American West, for eight months.
She has her own room in the attic above the garage, and enjoys it by looking, walking, and thinking.
Looking at the mushy American apples, I think of Frost's apples, and after spending all day locked in my room, I read Carl Sagan's Universe, and looking at the stars in the dark night, I think of André Malraux.
Her writing is filled with the strangeness of being separated from everyday life and the comfort of returning to everyday life.
This small yet romantic travel diary will give you a unique thrill.

The pumpkin I found today is really amazing.
This isn't a pumpkin with bruises, it's full of bumps, like a red bean bun with a lump of junk on it.
No matter how much I tried to pretend to know, this was my first time seeing a pumpkin like this, so I couldn't just pass it by, so I got really excited.
“There was a pumpkin like this too.
He keeps saying “It’s really amazing” and takes pictures.

Halloween is still quite a while away, but as soon as summer passes, all the stores are busy selling Halloween costumes and props.
Even stores that mainly sell one-dollar items are considered pumpkin sales.
It's cute and I'm trying to find something to enjoy in a region with more summer-like days all year round, but I also wonder if it's too full of pumpkins.
--- p.65

With my back to the lighthouse, the waves quickly came and went right in front of my nose.
After the lighthouse blinked, blinked, and told me where I was, strangely enough, the waves that suddenly appeared in the darkness didn't scare me.
Now I felt like I knew where I was, and at least I had my feet on land.

In The Great Gatsby, the green light of the lighthouse symbolizes the people who set out on their journey from Europe to America, from the East to the West, and Gatsby's hope as he waits for his old lover who has already left him, like Daisy.
It is the 'American Dream' that is vain to some, absurd to others, and will never come true to others, but it seems that there must be a lighthouse that blinks a green light and becomes a symbol of hope anytime, anywhere.
--- p.132

After dinner, I took a walk around the neighborhood and saw that there were quite a few houses that didn't have anything to see in front of them, but that didn't mean they didn't feel warm.
As it turns out, most people leave the lights in front of their front doors on all night on Christmas Eve.
Residents who keep their front door lights brightly lit, whether they have Santa or Rudolph, or whether they are of the same religion or not (although most are of the same religion).

This town actually has a lot of Mexicans and a few Asians living together, so the atmosphere is a bit different from the town where white people are the majority.
Especially, the houses in the alleys where Asians lived had almost no decoration.
But it's nice that even those homes show a little camaraderie by lighting up their front doors on the night of December 24th to celebrate Christmas.
It was late at night when I returned from a short walk around the neighborhood.
The night is deep and the village is quiet.

--- p.181