Roppongi: High Touch Town

“We seldom went to places off the established ways. It was as though, having come so far, we didn’t want to move about too much.”
V.S. Naipaul, A Bend in the River

Roppongi brings out the worst in everyone. As soon as you get off the train, you become the scumbag foreigner you’d tried not to be. No matter how hard you try to do the right things with your toilet slippers and chopsticks, you’re a baka gaijin the minute you hit Roppongi Crossing. You’re reduced to the lowest common denominator, instantly becoming a national stereotype. It’s the melting pot from hell, some bizarre school exchange that went gloriously, horribly wrong. But there’s something about it. You know how nasty it is, you know how dirty it will make you feel, but there’s something that drags you back there.

It’s like the scab that would heal if only you stopped picking it, the tiny cut on the roof of your mouth that your tongue always touches. Like your smelly old trainers, it’s comfortable, it’s got a few good memories attached to it, and you can’t bear to say goodbye. Every time, you promise yourself that it’s the last time. You tell yourself that you’re never going back to any of those filthy dives ever again. But it does have a perverse appeal. Maybe it’s just the cheap drinks and loose women, but the place does have its temptations. It’s easy, and you know you’re not going to be confronted by any unidentifiable parts of fish. You won’t have to spend ten minutes trying to decipher the drinks menu before settling on a beer. And you might pull.