Cultures don't have to collide, sometimes they just sit quietly next to each other.

The sun was already low when I sat down by the window, the kind of January light that doesn't warm anything, just lengthens it. Beyond the glass, the hills sat in that hazy, washed-out blue they get when the air is full of dust and the day is almost done. Long shadows reached across the table toward me. The duck's hat caught the flare. I sat there longer than I needed to, watching the sun work through the window, letting the small absurd objects on the table keep me company. Some days the road is just a chair, a window, and whatever odd thing catches your fancy. I didn't take notes. I just watched the light go.