A recent Friday night found me in Shinjuku, going to a show. I meet PJ at the east exit. "Here," she says. "I brought you some hot shoes." She pulls out a pair of four inch heels and demands I exchange my red flats for them. Meekly, forgetting I'm a grown ass woman who can dress her own self, I don them, wobbly on the sidewalk outside of the station.
We have a map to the club and set off to find it. From my map, it looks like it's exactly next to the mangakiss that I joined a few weeks ago, killing time waiting for the karaoke posse to show up. We hoof over there. No club. We backtrack, dodging girls wearing even less than me in my fishnets. They must be freezing their beautiful booties off. Hosts beckon, brandishing their waterfall hair and amazing 1,000 yen 2 hour nomihoudais. It starts to drizzle. My feet hurt; the shoes are too small. We consult the map. Heels clack. Another host approaches, telling us he can speak English. We wave him off and huddle under the umbrella. A koban policeman gives us incorrect directions. We pass the batting cages, again. Start getting into hostess club territory. Just about to give up and take one of the all-you-can-drink offers, we spot the club.