Friday: It's the morning of my flight. Watching the city of Bucharest come alive to the barking of dogs, I start to seriously consider canceling my trip. Somewhere over the blackness of Mongolia I'm troubled by the same thoughts. For a start, I'm not entirely sure why I'm going to Tokyo , apart from the few badly formed plans I have about trying to make some money as a DJ. My brother, teaching English somewhere in the Japanese countryside, has suggested that this should be fairly easy, given the country's adoration of all things western. But given that I only know two people in Tokyo (neither of them particularly well), it all starts to look like a hopelessly romantic plan.
Saturday: All such worries are forgotten upon landing in Tokyo at nine in the morning. Despite its huge size, it feels like a tiny toy city - everything is so precise and small. Everyone is so polite, from the beaming shop-assistants to the little men with white gloves and neon sticks who direct the traffic whenever so much as a piece of litter falls into the road. And it feels like the safest city in the world – crime, quite literally, hardly exists.
Monday: Met up with a group of bartenders, visited three clubs, and met a lot of people last night. Drinking in Tokyo is stupidly expensive - a glass of beer can easily cost $10. So I was extremely lucky to get onto the guest list for a club's seventh anniversary bash, where wine was free all night. Found myself drinking shots with the clubs owner as the sun rose. Being western is definitely something of an advantage, though having a stack of mix-cds to give out as presents also helps. However, free drink brings with it its disadvantages. I wake up with a pocket full of business cards, a headache, and a fairly foggy memory of who I've actually met.
Wednesday: Getting lost in the skyscraper business district that flanks the winding streets where I'm living shows me a different side to Tokyo . Row upon row of somber-looking “Salary-men” fill gambling arcades close to their offices, spending huge amounts of money on “Pachinko”, a cross between pinball and a fruit machine. I call the only other Japanese friend I have, who works for a large consultancy firm, and is too busy to meet. She works a fifteen hour day, and hasn't had a single day off for the past month.
Friday: Spent all of Thursday night at “Vanity”, Tokyo 's ultra-fashionable electroclash event. Manage to meet the promoter, a spectacularly friendly Canadian, who introduces me to a buzzing community of ex-pats, punks, fashionistas and a Japanese transvestite wearing pink high heels and a tutu. I've just been invited to play at the next “vanity” event in two weeks. Though I won't be getting paid, I think this counts as my first booking.
Saturday: I've been here a week, and things are going slowly - no more gigs lined up, and I'm running out of money. The fact that so few people speak English is a huge problem, since I can't talk my way into gigs in the way I'd like to. What's more, I don't have anywhere to live. The friend I'm staying with can't look after me any longer, and my alternative host has just told me he cant look after me. Right now I'm off to a party to talk to another promoter, but might have to spend the night sleeping in an internet café with huge comfy chairs. Wish me luck – I might need it.