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About Kyoto

So, I’m out there, right? Lookin’ for a gal—or guy, no judgement—who’s workin’ the corners. Not ‘cause I’m some sleaze, but ‘cause I’m curious—how’s this game even run? Billionaires don’t get it—they’re up in their penthouses sippin’ champagne while these folks hustle harder than a V8 engine on fumes! Makes me mad as hell—why’s it gotta be this way? The system’s rigged, I tell ya!

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As far as red light districts go, Tokyo’s Kabukicho near Shinjuku station is relativity tame. Unlike Amsterdam there are no pot houses (aka “coffee shops”), sex workers are not selling their .

Finally, the day winds down. I’m cleaning up, and Kenji’s counting tips. “Not bad today,” he says. I’m like, “Yeah, if you don’t count my sanity.” We laugh, and I feel that familiar warmth. This city, these people, they make it worth it.

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