Last winter, my coworker Kiyota spent one week in South Dakota and came home believing Americans give away land with every meal. Nobody has corrected him. Before the trip, our boss briefed him: "South Dakota is cattle country. A lot of people there own ranches." Kiyota wrote it down. Ranch. Land. Cows. Very valuable. First day. Lunch. A pizza place with his American coworker, Troy. The waitress set down the pizza and asked: "You want ranch with that?" Kiyota froze. In Japan, when a stranger offers you something enormous, you politely refuse. "No, thank you. That is too much." "Hon, it's free." "...Free?" "Always." That night, he called me in Tokyo. He was whispering. "They are giving away land at lunch." Day two. Chicken wings. "Ranch or blue cheese?" Kiyota looked at Troy for help. Troy said, "Ranch. Always ranch. Blue cheese people can't be trusted." So in America, they make you choose between land and cheese. And it's a character test. He chose the ranch. A tiny plastic cup of white sauce arrived. Kiyota studied it for a long time. He is an engineer. He decided it was symbolic. A deed you could dip. He did not eat it. He put the lid back on and carried it to his hotel with both hands. By Friday, there were fourteen cups in his mini-fridge. He told me he owned fourteen ranches. On the last night, at dinner, he finally asked Troy about it. "I cannot believe they give it to everyone." "That's South Dakota, man. Everybody gets ranch." "Even children?" "Especially children. Kids here start on ranch before they can walk." Kiyota was moved. In Japan, a man works his whole life for a small apartment. "My father worked fifty years. He never had one." Troy put down his fork. "Your dad's never had ranch?" "Never." "Bro." Troy looked genuinely upset. "We gotta fix that." "I could bring one home to him?" "Take a whole gallon, man. They sell it by the gallon at the store." Kiyota wrote this down. In America, land is measured in gallons. He was not surprised. This is the country that measures temperature in Fahrenheit. "How many gallons does a family need?" "Family of four? A gallon a week, easy." "A week." "Yeah. It goes fast." "What do you grow on it?" Troy squinted at him. "Grow? Nothing. You put it on stuff. Carrots. Celery. Pizza. Everything." "You put the ranch... on top of the vegetables." "Every time." Kiyota sat back in his chair. In Japan, the vegetables go on the land. In South Dakota, the land goes on the vegetables. "Do neighbors ever fight over it?" "Oh, all the time. Store-bought versus homemade. My mom and my aunt haven't spoken since Easter." Kiyota nodded slowly. "In Japan, too. Families fight over land." "Man," Troy said. "We're not so different." They shook hands. Both of them were very moved. Neither of them was talking about the same thing. At the airport, Troy was waiting at the curb with a gift. A one-gallon jug of ranch. Red bow on top. "For your dad." Kiyota bowed so low his backpack slid over his head. He checked the jug like a newborn. Wrapped in three sweaters. Back in Japan, he drove straight to his parents' house. His father is 79. A rice farmer for fifty years. Kiyota knelt and held out the jug with both hands. "Father. I have brought you a ranch from South Dakota." His father bowed and received it with both hands. He opened it. He poured a little on a cucumber from his own field. He ate it. A long silence. "This," his father said, "is the best land I have ever eaten." Kiyota found out what ranch was in March. From a YouTube video. He sat in his car for twenty minutes. He has decided not to tell his father. His father puts it on everything now. Rice. Tofu. Grilled fish. He tells the neighbors a young man in South Dakota gave him a ranch. Troy says that's exactly what happened.