Five Weeks in an Artist House

I’ve already written three posts about this trip without actually going anywhere. Still sitting in this chair—literally decomposing—and somehow narrating like I’ve already been there for weeks. Most people just go, keep quiet, send a postcard when they’re back. I prefer dragging someone into my neurotic anticipation spiral instead.

But I found a place. Five weeks in Tokyo, assuming they don’t throw me out for saying something unhinged about the imperial family. (I won’t. I have no fucking idea what I’d even say.)

The issue was avoiding three equally bad options: my own apartment where I’d just decay; a concrete tower on the edge of the city where I’d be completely alone; or a backpacker hostel, 22 Australians and 48 Russians packed into a basement for a month. Everything in Tokyo is stupidly expensive anyway, which you know.

So I’m in an artist house in Shinjuku, right next to Shibuya. First floor is a club called CAVE246. Second floor is a barbershop called Dorren. I’m on the third floor, next to a hostess bar. Rooftop has a barbecue setup and supposedly a decent view. Six hundred fifty euros for five weeks—found it through Wimdu.

The owner is Yoji. His English is charmingly broken. He also runs some kind of artist collective on the Pacific coast, which is legitimately cool if you think about it for more than two seconds. I wanted to be around weird creative Japanese people, not other tourists. Not completely isolated either.

It’s a home base. Once I land, I can disappear to Kyoto, Osaka, the beach, wherever, and have somewhere to return to. That matters. And given the location and the length, the price is solid.

So that’s done. Now I just need to find that Sailor Moon costume. Twenty-three days.