I had a few hours to kill between trains at JR Asahikawa Station. There was no rush. My ticket allowed stopovers. Even a brief walk around the station and town would make the journey more worthwhile.
The station building resembled an international airport terminal — glass and natural wood in a contemporary design, its grandeur and functionality stirring something in me. I stepped out through the north exit into the bustle befitting the gateway to northern Hokkaido, streets stretching toward the city center.
I wandered through main drags and back alleys. There were shops and atmospheres unique to Asahikawa, but national chain stores and brand signage dominated, drawing most of the foot traffic. JR terminal stations look the same everywhere these days. It felt a little lonely, though given shifting social conditions and economic efficiency, it made sense. If it enriched the lives of residents and travelers, who was I to complain?
I returned to the station building and crossed through the interior corridor to the south exit. What opened before me: a lush park, a clear river, and the Daisetsuzan mountain range rising in the distance. The Kitasaito Garden and the Chubetsu River. How many major urban stations integrate so seamlessly with nature? It felt as if an enormous station had been gently placed in the wilderness, the contrast with the north exit’s bustle all the more striking.
As I stood there thinking, I noticed a group of teenagers loitering near the south entrance. They had the hair and clothes of youth, skateboards in hand. They were taking turns practicing their runs on the tiled space in front of the station, the sound of wheels hitting the deck and their cheers echoing through the air. Both the station premises and the park prohibited skateboards — even bicycles.
Those waiting their turn were smoking. Clearly underage, and this was a no-smoking area. Elderly people emerging from the station building saw them blocking the way and took wide detours, avoiding trouble.
I usually tolerate youthful recklessness to a degree, but I couldn’t overlook them inconveniencing regular station users, especially the elderly. I considered saying something, but I was just a traveler here. This place might have its own culture, its own thresholds of tolerance. Besides, the kids might escalate things.
While I hesitated, a man in his thirties approached from across the park, carrying a small child — his daughter, perhaps. His expression was stern. He strode up to the teenagers and spoke in a voice that carried.
“Hey, you guys. Smoke and get busted or get lung cancer — that’s your business. But clean up the ash and butts. Right now. And the skateboarding. You’re not damaging the floor or the building, are you? And you’re in people’s way, and I won’t tolerate that. Whether it’s a problem isn’t for you to decide — it’s for the people passing through to decide. Go apologize to the stationmaster. Now.”
I held my breath, watching to see what they’d do. Surprisingly, the boys and girls simply said, “Yes, sorry,” bowed their heads, cleaned up the cigarette butts and ash, checked the walls and floor for damage, and asked a nearby shop, “Where’s the stationmaster’s office?” The man, as if nothing had happened, walked away with his child still in his arms.
I felt I’d witnessed something extraordinary, and relief washed over me. The magnificent Daisetsuzan range and one father’s presence at Asahikawa Station — I muttered to myself that there was no other station quite like this, and headed toward the ticket gate to catch my local train.
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