And this excerpt describes how she felt about the unique experience of travelling on Japanese trains.

 

"No one could ever emulate the way the Japanese designed, lived, ate or travelled. Everything was conceived with ingenuity and precision to make life easier and more enjoyable for everyone. Not only did public toilets have heated seats, they had buttons that played music or white noise for added privacy, and baby harnesses on the backs of doors so mothers could use the loo in peace. Packets of chopsticks contained toothpicks, taxi doors opened automatically, mirrors didn’t fog, shop doorways housed plastic bags for wet umbrellas, takeaway ice cream came with a chunk of dry ice to keep it cool, and hot dogs were served with a joint packet of mustard and ketchup that squeezed out in parallel lines.

 

Japanese trains were unlike any other in Asia. Used to yelling, delays, hawkers, muck and mayhem, I couldn’t fathom how this single nation had mastered utopian travel: dubbed the “seven-minute miracle”, sanitation teams at Tokyo station took just under seven minutes to clean the Shinkansen from end to end, wiping tray tables and windows, scrubbing toilets, emptying rubbish and turning seats around before the next batch of passengers boarded; the average Shinkansen delay was 54 seconds. At home, a Tesco carrier bag being caught on the overhead wires was enough to bring our trains to a standstill.

 

So punctual were Japan’s services that railway companies issued train-delay certificates – known as chien shomeisho – for any journey delayed by as little as five minutes, so passengers could prove to employers or schools that the tardiness was no fault of their own. But despite the speeds, punctuality and perfect queues, something was lacking, and I realised that it was because of the yelling, delays, hawkers, muck and mayhem that I lived for train travel. From within my bubble, I thrived on the commotion around me, drawing comfort from all that went wrong.

 

After lunch, most passengers were napping. Some read and others were working when the conductor entered the carriage. He removed his hat and bowed deeply. I smiled as he passed and watched him working his way up the aisle checking tickets. Once he reached the top of the carriage he turned around and bowed again before leaving. No one looked up and I felt bad for him. But in that one small action I realised that Japan’s trains didn’t need to be falling apart or filled with noise to be endowed with a character and soul of their own."