Morning at the Train Station

March 26, 2024 • Written by Amadeus Cigan

The asphalt slab that is the sole platform of Kamikitazawa Station fits a long, eye-shaped opening between two busy train tracks. The ground itself, bordered by yellow partitions cautioning passengers to the edge and the overgrown tracks themselves beyond, is tidy, pocked by dark gum spots but clean of trash or dirt and sheltered from the elements by a canopy overhead, held up by rust-stained pillars. Running the spine of the entire platform is a dotted line of benches, facing outward to the two sides. In the middle of the platform is its entrance, a gaping maw that reveals a wide, low staircase to the halogen-yellowed station proper below, and above that gap, hanging from the ceiling, is a display board, showing times and types of trains, whether they be local or express, for the tracks to the left and right.

The people of the station ebb and flow like a tide, accumulating on benches and queuing in neat lines, until they all rush onto the next train, only to be replaced by the passengers disembarking, draining down the subterranean staircase. For a place of such transience and anticipation, the rhythms of the movements of the people and the trains clicking along their routes give it a sense of calm. For many, including myself, this is the last place of peace before jumping into the day, whether that day holds work, school, or just time out on the town. It is a quiet before the storm.