The train is on time—because the train is always on time. And, I don’t have a seat. After getting slightly turned around disembarking my train from Hiroshima, which got me here in a real hurry, I’m struggling to make my connection. Dashing down onto the proper platform, I hear the rumble and clang of the big Sonic-Nichirin train rolling up. The passengers waiting to board are, as usual, standing in perfect queues, tidy single lines along numbered stripes painted on the floor. In a moment, the rolling stock will stop, and doors for those numbered cars will slide open, precisely in the right spot. But I don’t know which car—or corresponding stripe—is mine. I had arrived a little too late to book a seat assignment, so I’m left to try my luck on a handful of “non-reserved” cars. I ask a random passenger, just the one standing nearest me, where …