Mount Hakodate The city lights stretched between the seas

The cold air brushed my cheeks as I reached the summit of Mount Hakodate. On a January night, I tucked my chin into my coat collar and turned towards the city. The moment the lights spread out before me, everything I’d been thinking about slipped away.

The city was framed by the sea on both sides. I could see the strip of lights narrowing in the middle, then widening again beyond it. I’d seen this shape in photos, but standing there, I could feel the darkness of the sea, too. I’d meant to look only at the city, but I couldn’t take my eyes off what surrounded it.

I said, “Amazing,” but no other words came. With my hands clasped at my chest, I stared at the part where the city narrowed. I wondered what I could say to describe it, then decided to leave the explaining until later. I wanted to keep looking a little longer.

Before heading up, I’d told myself I’d take some good photos. But I got so caught up in the view that I hadn’t even pulled out my camera. For a second I wondered, what did I come here for? Then I laughed at myself: to look at the view, of course. It was a view I wanted to remember before taking a photo.

I looked from the edge of the city out to the sea, then brought my gaze back to the lights. The street I’d been walking earlier was somewhere down there, too. Roads and buildings I’d seen up close became part of the view of the whole city from up here. Instead of an unfamiliar nightscape, I felt a little closer to the Hakodate I’d walked through earlier that day.

Before heading back, I looked out over the city a little longer. I slowly unclasped my hands, but still couldn’t bring myself to start walking. Once I got back down, I’d be walking among the lights I’d seen from the summit. I thought I’d probably come to love those streets, too, and traced the shape of the city with my eyes one last time.