#ginzanights

I defied my parents’ objections and entered Waseda University. To cover the steep tuition, I worked four part-time jobs at once, sleeping only four hours a night. There was an invisible hierarchy on campus: at the top were wealthy students from Waseda’s affiliated schools, followed by brilliant minds from affluent families, and at the bottom—foreign students like me. Most of my fellow Chinese students had political or business connections; I was the only one from humble roots. As one of the few women in the engineering faculty, I kept my distance from men out of insecurity, which only seemed to intrigue them—one even stole my used towel to show off. I envied classmates lounging under the sun with designer bags and Starbucks coffee. Remembering my roommate who worked in Ginza and earned far more than I did, I decided to do the same—not just for tuition and living costs, but also to feed my vanity. The “mama-san,” a Chinese beauty in kimono, managed a team of Chinese, Japanese, Filipino, and Russian hostesses. The job rapidly improved my Japanese, and many customers were gentlemen who took us to high-end restaurants my parents would never visit. Through a senior in the education faculty, I rented a small house and found two roommates. During the move, I met my first boyfriend—a Korean man, eight years older, handsome, muscular, and kind. Even after long days, he would pick me up at night, once transforming my backyard into a fairy-tale scene and lifting me into a princess carry. He clearly envisioned marriage, but my vanity grew, and I began comparing him to Ginza patrons, pushing him to buy me luxury goods. By my second year, my newcomer glow had faded, and customers’ demands became bolder. I drank heavily, sometimes meeting them outside the club, feeling degraded and disposable. I remembered my childhood vow—to live only until 35—and realized I had no future. I knew I could never marry him, and I ended the relationship.