Japanese Trainspotting

Timing is everything. With careful planning and precise timing, you can see amazing things, so long as you know when and where to be. Everything runs on its own clock, and if you can synchronize with it, you can witness marvelous things.

Or, if you're lucky, you can stumble upon them at just the right moment. There's something magical about arriving just as the natural order of things is unfolding.

Twice since moving to Matsudo, I've left my apartment to discover a group of people gathered at a nearby railroad crossing. I live close to the tracks - they lie just across the street, parallel to a skinny creek lined with sakura trees. I'm used to the trains, but the people are unusual.

They are almost all men, and they all have cameras. Not your everyday handheld digital cameras but serious photography cameras, replete with lens attachments and tripods and whatever else may be needed for serious train photography. These men - there are seven or eight of them at the crossing, with more of them posted haphazardly along the sakura path - are ardently preparing for the moment of the perfect shot: adjusting their tripods for maximum stability, curling around the fence railing to get the best vantage point, clustering around around the edge of the path to get the clearest view. They are quiet and serious, focused on their work.

The crossing signal comes to life, and the actions of the photographers becomes more frantic as they make last-second preparations. Rumblings announces the train's approach, and then the group goes still, poised and ready to capture the moment.

The first time I witnessed this activity, the train had a vinyl banner spread across its front, declaring in Japanese and English that this was its Last Run. The second occurence provided no such insight to the importance of the event. Two sets of cars - one yellow, one blue - had been coupled, and nobody rode them; they carried only a small squadron of jumpsuited railway workers. Its signifigance remains a mystery to me.

To me, but not to the photographers. A symphony of snapping shutters erupts as the train comes closer, and then follows a scramble as the group reassembles to catch hasty photos of the train's backside.

And then the moment has passed. The photographers smile at each other and consult their cameras and compare pictures. This lasts only briefly, and then they pack up their things and head off in different directions. Within five minutes, the crossing is abandoned, once again an unimportant fixture in the Matsudo cityscape. You would never know that anything special had just happened here.