Glimpse - Your Stories from Abroad

The O-Edo-sen subway spilled us into the gothic interior of the Roppongi train station. With beer buzzing in our ears, we headed up the stairs and out the ticket stiles. Neon architecture flashed and churned and shimmered in the air above, clamoring for the attention of every wayward soul on the boulevard.

A group of young women passed by us on the left, heading straight for the heart of the district, all smiles, short skirts, and high heels. We followed close behind. Roppongi is one of the few places in Japan where taboos fall apart, where tradition is scorned, and where the young flaunt their vitality.

Seedy bars and brothels sprang up here at the turn of the century when Roppongi played host to the soldiers in the emperor’s garrison, fueled by the madness that accompanies hoards of isolated, idle young men. The district became a thriving commercial center, feeding on the darker side of human nature.

These days, it is one of Tokyo’s brightest and most sensual neighborhoods, catering mainly to foreigners and wild young Japanese. Still, an aura of foreboding and darkness lingers in the air amidst crisp, black-suited yakuza (members of Japan’s organized crime syndicate), and clamoring foreign street vendors.

Tonight, we would join the madness.

Sights, smells, and sounds overran my senses, pulling me in a thousand directions at once. I decided to figure out where we were headed tonight, if we had any direction at all in this swarm of voices and bodies.

“Where are we going this time, Tony?” I asked my half-Japanese friend next to me.

“How’s Gas Panic for starts?” he said.

“That’s every weekend,” a disgruntled Eric responded.

“Well, where do we go then?”

“Lex ha dou?” Hiyama suggested.

Lex is the place where foreign models working in Tokyo go for a good time. As is the case with most of the larger bars in the area, the bartender and bar-backs are more proficient in English than Japanese and are almost always foreigners themselves. The club also draws all sorts of shadier characters since the women are beautiful and seem interested only in having a good time. So it was settled.

The main street was a tangle of lights, giant television screens, and flashing kanji (Chinese characters employed by the written Japanese language). “You want special massage?” women crooned as we passed them by.

“Sandwich, 500 yen man,” called out the African falafel vendors in two or three different tongues. Men in smart black suits with sleek haircuts tried to lure us into clubs up and down the strip, but we held our own until the quickie mart. It was time for some refreshments before braving the chaos of Lex.

Leaning against the smudged walls outside of Lawson, we sipped our beers and watched the ebb and flow of people on the bright street. I wondered what sanctuary they might be seeking.

We finished our beers, continued down the street, and stepped into Lex.

Within moments, I found myself talking in broken Japanese to a man who claimed he was a drug dealer. We talked about the women, the club, and why the keisatsu (police) are so much damned trouble. Eventually I found my way to the dance floor, where a beautiful woman just entering the club caught my eye. She was definitely Japanese, though darker-skinned than most, and wore an emerald-green backless top. I thought she might be from a southern island, perhaps Kyushu or further down the archipelago.

“Would you like to dance?” I asked in Japanese, wondering at the glint in her dark eyes.

“Sure, I’ll dance with you,” she replied, to my utter astonishment. We danced in the hot, charged air on the floor, music throbbing in the background and faces shifting constantly like a human kaleidoscope.

I don’t know how much time passed, but as dawn began to creep down the stairs, my dancing partner finally took leave of me to find her friends. In an instant, she was gone. She seemed just as much a mystery three hours later as she had the moment she’d walked in the door.

I knew it wouldn’t be long before I was drawn back here. Roppongi, though tamer these days than it used to be, still maintains the dark charm that has been its legacy for most of the last century.

The five of us made it to the Shinjuku station but fell asleep on the next train and missed our stop. Twice. Eventually, we found the bikes we had left outside the station, next to the ineffectual “No Bikes” signs. Fresh warnings were tethered to the handlebars, just like 10 or 12 others—all warnings and no consequences. Dew clung to the seats in the crisp morning air. We hopped on our bikes and wound our way blearily through the urban sprawl.