Our galaxy: a slowly turning city of a few hundred billion stars, so wide that light needs a hundred thousand years to cross it. Every single star you have ever seen with your own eyes lives inside it — and on a dark night you can see the rest of it edge-on, as a band of haze.
Every picture of a spiral galaxy is a picture of somebody else's galaxy, seen from outside. We are inside ours, about halfway out from the middle and almost exactly in the plane of the disc. Looking along the disc, you see stars piled behind stars for tens of thousands of light-years — that is the band. Looking up out of the disc, you see through it in a few hundred and the sky goes thin.
What you will really see: not a glowing river of colour. A soft, uneven band of pale light, brightest towards Sagittarius, with dark rifts torn through it where dust blocks the view. You need a night properly away from town lights. From a city you will see nothing at all, and that is the light, not your eyes.
The whole solar system sits in the Orion spur, a short side-branch between two of the major arms, about 26,000 light-years out from the centre. The Sun takes something like 230 million years to go round once — the last time it was in this part of its orbit, dinosaurs had not started yet.
Clouds where new stars are being made, the wreckage of old ones that exploded, tight knots of stars that formed together, and lanes of dust thick enough to blot out everything behind them. Several of these are within reach of a small telescope, and one of them — the Orion Nebula — is easy.
Sagittarius A*, four million times the mass of the Sun, sitting at the exact centre of everything here. We know it is there because we have watched stars whip around it for thirty years, and nothing else could hold them in those orbits. You cannot see it. You can look at the patch of sky it is behind, which is a stranger feeling than it sounds.
Smaller galaxies orbit ours the way moons orbit a planet, and one big one is coming for us — Andromeda, in about four and a half billion years. Nobody will be hit: galaxies are so empty that they pass through each other.
This is the one that genuinely needs a dark sky, so it is worth planning — a moonless night, away from town, and twenty minutes without looking at a phone so your eyes catch up. It is the oldest thing anyone has ever looked at with the naked eye.