A late night in Azabu Juban.
This piece I had published at Matador got me thinking again about Sweden. My last visit there was last summer, and it was the first time I had seen my friend–a Tokyo mizu-shobai compatriot–in her home country. I arrived in the bright Sweden of Midsummer and the difference was tangible: back in Tokyo we lived under the darkness of night.
We had been like vampires in Japan; by night we transformed into our invented characters. We’d had fake names, fake backgrounds and spent most of our time under fake lighting in a dingy club in Roppongi. Here I was in Sweden visiting the real girl beneath the fake Tokyo lifestyle; the Swedish sun couldn’t have contrasted more with the life we had known each other in there.
And neither could the lifestyle. Days were filled with good, wholesome activities like strolling through the leafy Slottsträdgården or along the boardwalk at the Western Harbour. We packed picnics and drove out to secluded lakes in the countryside. Our activities never got any more risqué than a nude dip at Ribbersborgs kallbadhus open-air bath. It was a postcard picture Sweden; we gulped the fresh air like we did champagne in our past Tokyo’s lives.
And the sun just kept on shining. At this time of year it sits boldly in the sky until late, too late. After a few days the constant sunlight was beginning to give me a headache; the sugary sweetness of the strawberries sold on every street corner from kitschy-looking, brightly-painted kiosks were giving me nausea.
“Let’s go out.” I suggested. Julia agreed and I saw a flash of Nina, her Tokyo-at-night character.
“But in Copenhagen, not here,” was her sole concession. I had the feeling that nighttime was incompatible with her Swedish life.
Though the days stretched unnaturally into night, service hours remained as rigid as any other time of year. Drinking in bars was expensive and if you wanted to cushion the blow by drinking a little at home first, you would need to have stocked up before 6pm, the time that Sweden’s state-run alcohol store—the only place you could legally purchase booze in the country—closed.
We had planned ahead and filled our baskets late in the afternoon with beers and various cans that displayed pictures of strawberries, rhubarb and “forest fruits” on their labels. Even drinking was infused with this syrupy, summery sweetness.
The cans we didn’t finish at the apartment, we packed into a plastic bag and headed for the Oresundtrain that would take us across the Sound and straight into Copenhagen. This trip across international waters took all of twenty minutes and we managed to sink another couple of cans along the way. They may make it difficult to acquire the booze, selling it from only one store, but you can pretty much drink it wherever you want without raising any eyebrows.
The sun had finally gone down by the time we arrived in Copenhagen and stepped out of the station and into the neon glow of a Carlsberg sign. We paused for a drink at Kung Fu Izakaya on Sundevedsgade, where cocktails called “Hello Kitty” and “Hentai” made us briefly question exactly how far out of Sweden (and into our pasts) we had traveled. We drank up, turned our thoughts back to Denmark and made our way to one of the city’s most popular clubs, Vega—housed in a ‘50s trade union building in Vesterbro, a former worker’s quarter.
Standing at the coat check I felt exposed without the jacket I had just handed over. I shriveled in my jeans and shirt as I looked around at a group of girls done all up in what must have been their best, most expensive dresses.
At the bottom of the staircase up to the club I pointed to a fallen punnet of strawberries, their flesh already squashed into the floor, and tried to remember the Swedish word for the fruit. “Jordgubb…jordgubbar” I pronounced, tripping over the letters as a group of girls turned to me with eyes slit and whispered something indiscernible. No one smiled.
Everyone looked too neat and shiny and the wide-open space of the club gave me a feeling of uneasiness. Vega was a place to be seen and neither of us particularly felt like being noticed.
Vega felt cold so we headed for the second club, someplace more underground that had been recommended by a Danish friend. Dunkel—which roughly translates to dark and obscure—fit us perfectly. A tiny space with the barest of lighting and a sweaty, noticeably unpretentious crowd that just wanted to dance. Dunkel was what I had been looking for; I could blend into the corner shadows, closing my eyes to feel the bass, so close it was almost touching.
Hours and hours in the dark of Dunkel and daylight was visibly ready to interrupt. Over the heads of a crowd that was packed shoulder-to-shoulder, I could see the glow forcing itself in through windows. We checked our watches: six a.m. We fought it for another hour or so before giving in.
Out onto the streets and once again under the glare of the midsummer sun I felt greasy, in need of shower, a meal and bed. I realized that I could only flirt with the nighttime nowadays.
It was a Saturday morning and we hustled onto the train platform between families weighed-down with picnic gear and camping equipment. It was a feeling that everyone who is familiar with slinking back home in the early morning could recognize.
On the train back across the Øresund I drifted in and out of sleep, comfortable under the warming sun that streamed through the carriage windows. My vampire’s thirst for the dark quenched.