Meet Me in Shibuya
It’s 4 a.m. in Shibuya, the district of Tokyo where the city’s glamour and sleaze meet, where people and music from all over the world find each other.
The sound of the log drum reverberates throughout the club, sending all the girls’ hips into a slow roll. The boys behind, enthralled and intoxicated by the movement. The city’s thin veil of morality has set with the sun. A hedonistic Babylon awakens, and inhibitions fade into the shadows of the night. I sit in the smoke-filled lounge above, the decadent scent of Cohiba cigars and Italian musk cologne swirling in the air around me. I sip golden champagne from a crystal flute, luxuriating on the blue velvet couch that offers a reprieve from the steamy haze of the party below. The mingling of ritualistic peacocking and exuberant gyrating makes for an entertaining scene. Strangers seduce each other, their whispered promises hushed and hidden beneath the loud melodic beat. Empty bottles of Azul adorn the space, and the flickering glow of lighters illuminates pretty faces and eager smiles.
A tall, handsome man joins the crowd. I rest my gaze on him as he makes his way to the DJ, who pauses his set to greet him. A glint of gold catches my eye as he turns—an ornate ankh pendant hangs from his neck, the opal at its centre sparkling in the darkness. His half-buttoned silk shirt and newsboy cap stand out in the sea of tracksuits and mini-dresses. He surveys those around him, hands in his pockets, eyes low and relaxed, exuding the natural steeze that seems bred into Tokyo natives. I lean forward in my seat, lips pressed softly against the rim of my glass, fingers curled around its delicate stem.
The crowd seems to part for him as he moves, the sea of intoxicated foreigners displaying an unlikely reverence. A beautiful young girl squeals in delight when she sees him. Draping her arms over his broad shoulders, she traces the back of his neck with her onyx nails. Her vintage Cavalli sundress catches the light, its exotic print rich with colour, visible even in the low light. Trimmed with silver mink, its chiffon layers drape around her hips—a cascade of fuchsia, turquoise, and gold. She giggles as he whispers in her ear, her tipsy smile widening as he moves his hands further down her back. I sit back and turn my attention to the glass in my hand, which is now empty. I’ve had my fill of the night.
As we exit the club, I try not to stumble in my new Manolo stilettos, gripping my friend’s hand tightly as she guides me down the steps. The bouncer gives her a light while I step out into the crisp air. I close my eyes and inhale slowly as my face turns numb in the cold. The sultry beauty blows a plume of smoke into the sapphire sky, leaning against the graffiti-covered wall. I see the heavens in her glossed plum lips, as they reflect the fading stars above us. We stand in silence, satisfied with the revels of the night, not quite ready to leave it behind. We wrap ourselves in fox fur coats; the spring air still carries the biting chill of a winter morning. She rests her head on my shoulder as we watch the sun kiss the Tokyo skyline, turning the world a celestial shade of periwinkle.
We decide to skip the sparkling after-parties in Roppongi and instead head to a ramen restaurant to close out the night. We link arms and enact our best Carrie Bradshaw impressions as we hail a taxi. In the warm backseat, I let my heavy eyelids fall closed, and the surreal dream that was last night begins to play over again in my mind.
