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Back in October, I wrote about a little American girl at Tokyo Station. The crew that cleans the bullet trains formed a line on the platform and bowed to the incoming train. She stopped walking, pressed her arms to her sides, and bowed right back. Big. Serious. Very careful. Then she whispered to her mom, "They're so nice." Some of you asked if the crew remembered her. So I found out. One of the women on that crew lives in my parents' building. Mrs. Tsuruta. She's 63. Thirty-one years cleaning bullet trains. She remembered. Pink sneakers. One lace untied. The whole crew remembered. They have a name for her. Ojigi-chan. Little Miss Bow. Then Mrs. Tsuruta said something that stopped me. "That week," she said, "I had decided to quit." Her knees. Thirty-one years of kneeling between rows of seats. Seven minutes per train. Fifteen trains a shift. "Nobody looks at us," she said. "We bow to every train, and people walk past us like we're part of the platform. That's normal. That's the job. I don't complain." "I had already written the letter." "Then a little girl from America looked straight at me. Like I was somebody." She tore up the letter that night. Then she did something else. Her daughter is 35. For years, her daughter had told friends her mother "works for the railway." Never what she did there. Mrs. Tsuruta told her about the little girl. The next Saturday, her daughter came to Tokyo Station without saying anything. She stood on the platform and watched her mother bow to a train. When the doors opened and the crew went in, her daughter bowed too. To her mother's back. Mrs. Tsuruta didn't see it. A coworker told her afterward. She had to go sit in the break room for a while. I asked her if it was just that one girl. She laughed. Then she talked about Americans for an hour. "They try to help. Badly. A big man wearing a cowboy hat grabbed a seat to turn it around for us. Wrong direction. It got stuck. He apologized to the seat." "They clap. When we finish a car, sometimes the Americans waiting on the platform clap for us. In thirty-one years, no Japanese passenger has clapped for us. Not once. That's not our custom, and that's fine. But I have to be honest with you. It's very nice." "They film us like it's the Olympics. One man narrated the whole thing like a football announcer. 'And she goes for the tray table... SHE GETS IT.' The woman next to me almost dropped her bag laughing." "An American grandma hugged me. In the middle of my shift. I was holding a trash bag. She said, 'Honey, you work too hard,' and she hugged the trash bag too. By accident. She apologized to it." "A family of six tried to bow to each of us. Individually. Six of them. Twelve of us. That's seventy-two bows. The train nearly left late. In thirty-one years, no train of mine has ever come that close to leaving late. My supervisor still doesn't know why." "A boy from Texas asked for my autograph. I have never signed anything but timesheets. I signed it. My hand was shaking." "Sometimes there's a note left on a seat. In English. 'Thank you for cleaning. You guys rock.' Half of us can't read English. We keep every one. They're on the wall of our break room. The wall is almost full." There's one note in the middle of that wall that Mrs. Tsuruta won't let anyone take down. Blue ink. Written on a ticket envelope. A younger coworker translated it for her. "My dad was a janitor for 35 years. Nobody ever bowed to him. I bowed back for him today. Thank you." "I read that one," she said, "when my knees are bad." Then she told me what the crew started doing after Ojigi-chan. When a train pulls in and there's an American kid at the window, the crew bows a little lower. To the kid. Just to see. They keep a tally on the break room wall, next to the notes. Kids who bowed back so far: 143. One boy bowed so low he tipped over. They counted him twice. "And the ones who didn't?" I asked. "We stopped counting those," she said. "There weren't enough to bother." Mrs. Tsuruta was supposed to retire this March. Last week, she asked for one more year. "Somebody has to be on that platform," she said, "when the next one bows." Ojigi-chan told her mom, "They're so nice." Mrs. Tsuruta says she got that backwards. "We were just doing our job," she said. "She was the nice one." America, that little girl had no idea she was keeping a 63-year-old woman on that platform. She just thought it was polite. You do that a lot. You raise kids who look at the person cleaning up and see somebody.