USA. A diner entrance. There is a glass tower beside the register, and inside it, pies revolve slowly. Like planets. Like trophies. Like a test. I stood before it longer than is socially acceptable. In my land, the spoils of victory are displayed once, humbly, then put away. Here, the spoils ROTATE. Lit from within. Cherry passes. Lemon meringue rises over the horizon. Chocolate cream descends like dusk. The display has seasons. "You want a slice?" the waitress asked. "Which one is correct?" "...They're all correct, hon." ALL correct. Then the rotation is not a ranking. I had assumed the tower was an order of merit — the strongest pie ascending, the weakest cast down. No. They circle as equals. Eternal. Unranked. I watched two full rotations. The man behind me waited, then gave up and pointed. "Apple." Just like that. No vigil. No study. He pointed at a moving target and committed his evening to it. The decisiveness of this country will never stop humbling me. I confess what I did next. The lemon meringue came around a third time. Its golden peaks caught the light. I raised my hand as it passed, like a man hailing a ship. "The yellow one. Before it escapes." "It's not going anywhere, sweetie." It is going somewhere. It is going in a circle, and a circle is a journey too. The pie was perfect. I ate it facing the tower, so the others could see that their comrade was honored. The pies do not turn to tempt you. They turn so that no pie is ever first, and no pie is ever last. Next visit: cherry. It has been making eye contact for three rotations.