I had rented a car for a few days and had driven far off the beaten path into the southwest corner of the island, where tree-covered mountains plunge into the sea, and villages of two dozen wooden houses straggle along thin stretches of carved-out coast. I was following the sea past rice paddies and peaks, exulting in the wild beauty of the place, thinking that I must be about as far away from the world as it's possible to get in Japan.

Then, at one particularly picturesque bend in the road, an incongruous building appeared. It was actually two connected buildings - one of gleaming golden wood, and the other bright-red brick - and it looked brand-new. On the side a shiny red-and-white sign read in English, "Needle Work House MUE." I pulled into its tiny parking lot to take some pictures. As I was getting back into the car, a man opened the door of the building, smiled broadly and greeted me with a "Konnichiwa!" hello and then went back inside.

The man's face was so gentle and kind and his eyes so deeply smiling, and the building itself was so intriguing, I had to go inside.

I opened the door of the brick building and instantly a man and a woman greeted me, "Irasshaimase!" The man motioned me forward into a gleaming, pristine room that smelled of cedar and fresh paint. "Dozo! Dozo!" he said, pointing to a stool at a six-stool bar. "I was hoping you would come in! Would you like something to drink?"

"A coffee, please," I replied in Japanese. "And some toast."

"Ah, we don't have any toast. Just coffee or green tea."

"No food at all?"

"No, we just opened! Maybe someday we will have food."

As he prepared my coffee, he told me the story of Mue:

"My wife and I opened this shop just three days ago. When her mother died half a year ago, she inherited all the surrounding land, even the mountain behind us, so we moved back here. We arrived from Kobe just a few months ago. My wife is a quilt-maker - she has won national prizes, you should take a look at her work! - so we decided to open this shop to sell quilting materials. That's all in the next room. Then we decided to add on this coffee shop. We thought it would be nice to give customers a place to rest and talk, and we thought some people driving by might want a place to stop - just like you!" He smiled.

"It's great, isn't it, Papa?" his wife said, walking in from the quilting room. "We were afraid we would never see another foreigner after leaving Kobe, and now already we have a foreign guest. Welcome!"

"Come see my quilts!" she urged, taking me by the arm. We walked into a room lined with shelf upon shelf upon shelf of material in thick rolls. She pulled out bolt after bolt, from elegant traditional kimono-like cloth to jarringly bright modern patterns. "You are from America - this is from America!" she said, pulling out some rough-spun New England scenes. Then she showed me photographs of her work. She stopped at a picture of her holding a big ribbon and a quilt that was astonishing in its overlay of colors and intricate patterns. "This is the one that won the national Japan award," she said matter of factly, without any bluster.

I went back to finish my coffee, and the husband pointed to the gleaming wooden shelves behind the bar, each one holding a carefully arranged assortment of teacups and bowls. "See these?" he said. "These are gifts from my wife's quilting students. Each one represents a different kind of Japanese pottery. This one is Bizen-yaki, this one is Oribe-yaki, this one here is Hagi-yaki, and here's an example of Tobe-yaki. It's a little like having the whole world of Japanese pottery right here in the little world of our shop!"

"In Kobe," the husband continued, his voice turning wistful, "we had so many foreign friends, from so many countries. We used to have so many parties. . . . Well! Since you are our first foreign guest, this coffee is on the house! You are a very auspicious visitor: Perhaps the world is coming to Shikoku!"

I finished my coffee, and we said effusive goodbyes, and I walked back to my car, marveling once again at how the roads that we think lead away from the world end up taking us to its very heart.