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I might never have got into the stranger's taxi if it weren't for video games. It was September and, earlier that evening, I'd met a journalist friend who lives in Japan for a catch-up drink. He took me to a themed Irish pub just off Shibuya crossing, the sort of establishment you'd never darken in Spain, but which, when transported to Tokyo, is transformed from blight to curio. The place didn't disappoint. Everything was slightly off: We drank pints of Guinness, each one laced with a shot of red wine. American sports blared on the overhead TVs. Most implausibly of all, one tidy queue trailed up to the bar: Dublin through a glass darkly. We caught up. Finally, we said goodnight. It was still early, the Autumn air muggy and electric. I muffled my ears with headphones and began to walk around Shibuya. And then I met Brad.Most people, stepping onto the daunting expanse of the Shibuya crossing for the first time, call to mind that scene in Sofia Coppola's film Lost in Translation where Scarlett Johansson cuts a path through a Serengeti of salarymen, her mouth pulled slightly open as she takes in the panoramic expanse of the bordering advertising screens above her. You'll always see a tourist snapping a hurried selfie in that same spot, where all of the city's energy seems to be focused, the centre of everything. For video game players, however, Shibuya promises much more than a mere photo opp. Shibuya is no mere cinematic backdrop. Shibuya is where you come to find adventure.
My legs were weary. Jetlag had quickened the alcohol's effects and, apart from anything else, I needed a piss. I entered a claustrophobic bar and joined the queue for the bathroom. The young man in front of me was taking vigorous selfies, zigzagging his phone through the air, striking a fresh pose with each jerk. He noticed me, smiled, put an arm around my shoulder and snapped a shot. In bewilderment, I shook his hand and introduced myself. "Fuck off, you're English?" he said, before throwing his arms around me. What are you doing here, I asked. "I'm a model," he said, and I laughed, not because I thought it implausible (Brad was beautiful: a gauntly tidy face, a razor jawline, are-you-shitting-me-blue eyes) but because I didn't know how else to respond. Information came quickly now: Brad grew up in South London and now worked for an enviable clutch of celebrated fashion clients. He spent most of his time in Paris and Milan. And now, Tokyo. "Do you like dancing?" he asked. "You should come dancing. I have a taxi coming."
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