The In Between begins.
This is what may have started it all.
Be Kind and Rewind to ‘97.
It started with a call to my old friend Gon.
You remember him from Santa Barbara. Gon had been a foreign exchange student, we’d worked side by side at Something Fishy , and he was, without question, my brother from another mother. I had just seen him in feb. this year in SB after almost 16 years.
So when I told him I was coming to Japan with no plan, no job, no clue he just said, “Come on.”
But before this Tokyo story can fully take off, let’s meet a couple more key players.
There was P my first “real” girlfriend, first love, and the person I lost my virginity to at 15 (she was 14, and yes, that’s absolutely insane to think about now). P had just returned from a stint in Japan where she’d worked as a hostess at a club called One-Eyed Jack’s. (Don’t worry, we’ll get to the “hostess” thing soon.)
Remember in the last post, While visiting family in Wisconsin, P brought along her friend YO who, for reasons still unknown, I christened him Mo. Fast forward 26 years, and Mo is still a close and great friend. He just came to visit me last summer, we played mini golf when we first met, laughed our asses off, and I sent him a care package this Christmas. Real ones stick around.
Back in the ‘90s, I told Mo I wanted to visit Japan someday. He handed me his contact info. Neither of us thought we’d still be using it two decades later.
LK, P’s old flatmate in Tokyo, was an ex-hostess who’d transitioned into the far more respectable world of teaching English to salarymen. P hooked me up with her contact info, and I arranged to crash at her place renting a little slice of floor in what I imagined was a minimalist dreamscape.
So, that was my “plan.” Fly to Japan. Go to Gotemba. Eventually end up in Tokyo. Hopefully not die.
When I landed in Japan, Gon picked me up at the airport. Just me, one bag, and a stubborn sense that things would work out.
He was living back in Gotemba with his parents this peaceful, small town near Mount Fuji. His family welcomed me with open arms, homemade dinners, and warm hospitality. I remember being struck by how perfectly he looked like his parents a flawless 50/50 blend of mom and dad, like someone spliced them together in Photoshop. Same with his sister. Genetics really snapped on that one.
We explored soba fields, cooked meals, wandered through quiet neighborhoods. It was beautiful. But for Gon, it was exhausting he was the only one in his family who spoke English, and playing full-time translator wore him down quickly.
It was time to give him a break. Tokyo was calling.
Mo had come down to Gotemba to meet Gon. We all hung out, talked a bit about what was next, and I decided it was time to make the leap. I boarded a train, headed toward Tokyo with nothing but my notebook, Lori’s number, and my mantra of what the hell am I doing?
And then—Tokyo.
If you’ve never seen it, it’s hard to explain. Blade Runner comes close, minus the flying cars. It was fall. Rainy. The lights reflected off every surface slick black asphalt, the glass sides of buildings, puddles that looked like mirrors for another world. I stepped out of the station into chaos: music, thousands of people, trains, motion. All of it louder and faster than anything I’d ever seen.
I had no cell phone. No GPS. Just a phone booth (remember those?), a pocket-sized address book, and my face doing the full “deer in neon headlights” expression.
I called Mo. Somehow managed to explain where I thought I was.
And somehow he found me.
There I was: some lost white dude standing outside a station with a backpack and probably a look of awe plastered across my face. Mo rolled up on a motorcycle with two helmets like he’d done this a thousand times before. I climbed on, and we rode through the glowing veins of the city, the wind mixing with the hum of a city that never really shuts up.
It was unreal.
It was everything.
I had made it.
Mo took me to Lori’s place, somewhere between “I hope this is the right spot” and “if this is how I die, at least it’ll be cool.”
Lori lived in one of those impossibly narrow Tokyo buildings that look like they’re held up by sheer willpower. On the ground floor? A Swatch store. That’s all I remember. Tiny, nondescript, and kind of perfect in its weird neutrality.
This was still pre 1998 Winter Games, so Tokyo hadn’t yet gone through its big English-friendly makeover. Most subway signs were still a mystery. Just getting around felt like a puzzle.
We climbed a few dark flights of stairs and knocked on a heavy metal door.
And there she was Lori. Petite, longhaired, Canadian, and disarmingly sweet. She smiled, opened the door, and just like that, I had a flatmate.
She wasn’t a hostess anymore. She was teaching English to actual adults in actual suits. No wild drama. No weird baggage. Just a totally normal, functioning person exactly the kind of person I didn’t realize I desperately needed in my life. We are still friends to this day.
Looking back, I had no clue how lucky I was. This could’ve gone completely off the rails. Instead, I found myself in a tiny flat with two rooms, a kitchen the size of a broom closet, and a bathroom that felt more theoretical than practical.
In Japan, they measure living space by tatami mats. Lori had a bedroom, probably around 12 mats. I had a slice of the living room. Sixteen mats total. It was just enough.
The walls were covered in magazine clippings. There was a couch. Maybe a table. I shoved my backpack into a corner and settled in.
No Map, Just Vibes
Bella, another connection from Paula’s world had known Lori from her One Eyed Jack’s days. We’d shared drinks, cigarettes, and some laughs that felt important, even if I can’t remember them clearly now.
I was tripping out. I had landed in Tokyo. I knew three very cool, normal humans. And I had absolutely no idea what came next.
But that was the magic, wasn’t it?
This was before curated guides, before YouTube walk-throughs, before AI told you which street ramen stand was “the most authentic.” It was just me, a notebook, and whatever the day threw at me.
That notebook was my translator, my map, my survival kit. I’d spend nights in bars sketching, writing, pointing to little drawings to communicate. It made things real. Messy, awkward, human.
And yeah, sure, you could drop into Tokyo now with your apps and translation glasses and never miss a beat.
But you’d also never get wonderfully, desperately lost.
And I think you’d miss something big.
The In Between
I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know where it would lead. But I was there. Living it. Loving it. Letting Tokyo wrap around me like a dream I hadn’t asked for, but didn’t want to wake up from.
That’s the in between.
It’s the space between knowing and not knowing, between arriving and becoming. It’s where the magic hides. Where the best stories begin.
And somehow, it all started with a Swatch store.
Next Time, on Notes from the In Between...
Of course, I still needed to make money. And fast.
Remember how P had worked as a hostess at a place called One Eyed Jack’s? Yeah. That seed had been planted. And while I had no idea what the hell I was getting into, I figured how hard could it be?
Beautiful people. Strange rules. Free drinks. A job where you’re paid to hangout with beautiful people and cool Japanese?
Sure. Let’s do that.
Next up: the surreal, smoky world of Tokyo’s hostess clubs and how I stumbled into it, got propositioned and became a VIP waiter.
Stay tuned.
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Love & Light;
MM
Makes me Japan nostalgic. ❤️
The best ❤️🫶