Margaret Had a Man in (Almost) Every Port

There was a period in my life as a flight attendant when I had a man in almost every port. Not literally every port, of course. Some layovers had terrible flight schedules, some had terrible men, and occasionally I was just too tired to care about either.

But I had a pretty impressive international roster of gentlemen who were happy to see my name appear on their phones and even happier when I told them I had a layover and was available for a date.

I know if you're reading this you're not clutching your pearls. In fact, I'm pretty sure you're here in the hopes I spill a few scandalous details. You know I was single, independent, gorgeous, and perfectly capable of juggling a few romantic affairs. I wasn't looking for a husband, or somebody to ask me what I wanted to do for dinner every night for the rest of my life.

My grandmommy would be scandalized reading what I'm going to tell you. Clutching her pearls. But as my grandaddy would say: "I'm here for a good time, not a long time. Let's make it count."

I wanted adventure. I wanted chemistry. I wanted magic. I wanted to spend a few glorious hours with someone who made me laugh, made me think, fed me good food, and put me to bed happy. And my goodness, did I meet some interesting men that fit the bill.

There was my Canadian lover, from whose bed I wrote my first ebook in 2012. My Israeli lover, who kept trying to convince me to abandon my glamorous, nomadic existence, move to Tel Aviv, and have his babies. My Connecticut lover, who lost out to my Guyanese boyfriend largely because Connecticut in February couldn't compete with eighty-degree Caribbean weather. And my Las Vegas lover, who was always happy to feed me sushi and spend the rest of our time getting delightfully distracted in hotel rooms at the Sahara and the Westin.

Some of these romances lasted weeks. Others stretched across years, sustained by intermittent visits, affectionate messages, and the delicious anticipation of seeing one another again. They weren't all grand love affairs, and they weren't supposed to be. Some were simply wonderful chapters in a life I was having an extraordinarily good time living.

But one of my favorite stories began with a handsome passenger in first class, a borrowed book, and sliding into the DMs of a writer-journalist on Twitter. Which is how I ended up with my Japanese lover. Let me tell you about Jake, whose name has intentionally not been changed, because it kinda matters — there's only one Jake Adelstein (but please know I did get permission to share all this).

I called Jake my Japanese lover, although he was only kind of Japanese. I realize that sounds a little ridiculous, and possibly even disrespectful, but hear me out. Jake lived in Japan, spoke Japanese, had written a bestselling book about the Japanese underworld, and employed a former member of the yakuza as his driver. As far as I was concerned, that was Japanese enough for the purposes of assigning him a nickname. Besides, I had a long-standing tradition of collecting geographically specific boyfriends, and I wasn't about to let technicalities get in the way of a perfectly good system.

This story begins back when Twitter was still a fun place to be. Remember those days? Before the bots, the trolls, the relentless advertisements, and whatever the hell we're calling it now. There was a glorious window of time when Twitter was populated by genuinely interesting people who were there to have actual conversations. Journalists argued with politicians, comedians made fun of everybody, writers shared things they were working on, and ordinary people could participate in conversations with people they otherwise never would have met. It was a giant cocktail party where everyone was clever and occasionally somebody took their pants off. I absolutely loved it.

When I created my account in 2007, I was one of the first 700,000 people (I know that sounds like a large amount, but if you see the numbers these days, you'll know that was kind of almost early adoption).

At the time, I was a New York-based flight attendant, regularly working flights to Georgetown, Guyana. Guyana isn't exactly the first destination that comes to mind when you imagine glamorous international travel, but I loved that route. The crews were fun, the layovers were interesting, and occasionally the universe rewarded me with an exceptionally attractive passenger. Like Justin.

Justin was sitting in the last row of first class, looking intimidatingly handsome. He was half Japanese and half Native American, with the sort of bone structure that makes you wonder whether his ancestors had been personally sculpted by a famous artist. He was intelligent, charming, funny, and reading a book. A BOOK. In a world full of men watching sports on tiny seatback televisions, this felt like discovering a unicorn. Also, it's rare to see someone my own age traveling in First Class to that destination.

Naturally, I made it my business to get asked on a date.

The book Justin was reading was Tokyo Vice, by Jake Adelstein. I didn't know much about it, but I knew enough to recognize an excellent opportunity to initiate a conversation. I asked Justin what he was reading, and he told me about this American journalist who had become a crime reporter in Japan, investigating the yakuza and getting himself tangled up in some exceptionally dangerous situations. I was intrigued by the book. But I was significantly more intrigued by Justin.

As it turned out, Justin was working with USAID on an agricultural project in Guyana. He was helping local farmers develop tilapia farming operations that could work cooperatively with existing agriculture. The fish produced nutrient-rich water that could be used to irrigate and fertilize crops, creating a mutually beneficial system for farmers who might otherwise be competing for limited resources. It was clever, sustainable, and genuinely useful work. I found the whole thing fascinating, although I admit that I would probably have been fascinated if he had been explaining the operating principles of a toaster. Did I mention he had a surprisingly deep, sexy voice. I was hooked.

Justin offered to lend me the book when he finished it. We exchanged contact information, ostensibly for literary purposes, and eventually started dating. I called him my Guyanese boyfriend. The romance was lovely while it lasted, but eventually we went our separate ways, as people do. I still had his copy of Tokyo Vice, which I had been meaning to read for ages. I couldn't possibly return a borrowed book without reading it first. That would be rude, and I have standards, even if they are somewhat inconsistently applied. So I finally read it and Holy Shit.

The book was extraordinary. Dark, funny, dangerous, and utterly engrossing. Jake Adelstein had moved to Japan as a young American and somehow managed to become the first American staff writer at one of the country's biggest newspapers. He'd spent years covering organized crime, investigating corruption, getting close to people who were capable of some very frightening things, and generally living the sort of life that makes you question whether the author has any functioning sense of self-preservation. I absolutely loved it.

Naturally, I looked him up on Twitter. This was the beautiful thing about early Twitter. You could find someone whose work you admired, send them a message, and there was a reasonable chance they would actually read it. Better yet, they might write back.

Once, I posted about reading The Fionavar Tapestry for the 25th time and Guy Gavriel Kay (the author) thanked me in a tweet and it made my YEAR.

Nobody had a social media manager screening messages or an AI chatbot pretending to be their publicist. There was just a person on the other side of the screen.

So I slid into Jake Adelstein's DMs.

I don't remember the exact wording, but the general sentiment was, "Hey, I loved your book. I'm a flight attendant based in New York. If you're ever in town, let's get a drink." Subtle? Not especially. Effective? Absolutely.

Jake responded enthusiastically and quickly, because I am delightful company and, if we're being completely candid, my profile picture was very good. We started chatting, mostly over DMs. He was witty and irreverent, with a dark sense of humor that appealed to me immediately. I liked the way his brain worked. He was endlessly curious, knew fascinating people, and had enough stories to keep a dinner conversation interesting for approximately three hundred years.

About a month later, he mentioned that he would be in New York and invited me to attend an event with him. Wonderful! A proper date. I'd get dressed up, meet this intriguing journalist, enjoy some cocktails, maybe have a nice dinner afterward. Very civilized.

What Jake neglected to mention was that he was the fucking keynote speaker.

Have you ever gone on a first date with someone who is the primary reason everyone else is attending the event? I don't recommend it. There is absolutely nothing low-key about being someone's date when every person in the room wants to shake his hand, ask him a question, introduce him to somebody, or tell him an interminable story about their cousin who once visited Tokyo.

Fortunately, I looked spectacular. I was wearing one of those very short, very tight bandage dresses that were all the rage at the time. The sort of dress that required a certain amount of confidence and absolutely no intention of eating a large meal. I had long blonde hair, excellent legs, and a frankly unreasonable amount of enthusiasm for the evening. I made excellent arm candy.

I smiled, shook hands, made very little conversation, and stood beside Jake looking decorative while everyone else demanded his attention. It was not exactly the intimate first date I had envisioned, but I figured there were worse ways to spend an evening than looking gorgeous on the arm of a fascinating man. Eventually, we escaped.

We found a Japanese restaurant nearby and settled in for a late dinner. Finally, it was just the two of us. No audience, no speeches, no strangers interrupting to ask about organized crime. Just good food, excellent conversation, and the wonderful electricity of discovering that someone is even more interesting in person than they were on the internet. We talked for hours. About Japan, about journalism, about flying, about the strange lives we'd both managed to create for ourselves. I loved that neither of us seemed particularly interested in living a conventional existence. We were both curious about the world, comfortable with a little uncertainty, and inclined to follow an interesting opportunity just to see where it might lead. We stayed until the restaurant was practically closing around us.

And then, well, one thing led to another. What was supposed to be a drink with an author whose book I'd enjoyed became a delicious little fling, which evolved into a long-distance flirtation that continued long after Jake returned to Japan.

Eventually, we decided I should come to Tokyo for a few days. Now, I have been extraordinarily fortunate in my life to visit some amazing places. Being a flight attendant gives you access to the world in a way that most people never experience. You can have breakfast in New York and dinner in Paris, or find yourself in a city you barely knew existed simply because somebody needed another crew member for a flight.

But there's a difference between visiting a city as a tourist and visiting it with someone who actually lives there. Especially someone whose professional life revolves around uncovering the fascinating, complicated, occasionally dangerous things happening beneath the surface.

Tokyo with Jake was never going to be an ordinary vacation. For one thing, he had a driver who was ex-yakuza. Even crazier, he wasn't just a member, he was a former yakuza BOSS. Yes, an actual Japanese organized crime syndicate. The tattoos, the missing finger, the elaborate traditions, the criminal underworld. That yakuza.

I would never in my life have guessed he was a criminal or had done bad things. He looked like somebody's nice Japanese grandpa. This man was absolutely precious.

I realize there's something inherently absurd about describing a former organized crime associate as precious, but he really was. I found him completely charming. Here was someone whose life had taken him through a world that I knew almost nothing about, and he was helping chauffeur me around Tokyo like I was some visiting dignitary who had accidentally wandered into a crime novel. He was a bit intimidated by my height (which I confidently boosted with ridiculously tall platform heels by Steve Madden), and in the photo I have of the three of us, he's on his tiptoes!

I wish I could have bottled up the experience of riding through Tokyo with the two of them. The city passing outside the windows, the occasional glimpses of neon and crowded sidewalks, the unfamiliar street signs, the strange juxtaposition of everything looking impossibly futuristic and deeply traditional at the same time. I was in Japan with the man who had written Tokyo Vice, being driven around by a former yakuza member, all because I flirted with a passenger over a book. Life is completely ridiculous.

We stayed in a gorgeous hotel room overlooking Tokyo Tower, the enormous red-and-white broadcasting tower that looks rather like the Eiffel Tower decided to relocate to Japan and get a more interesting paint job. At night, the illuminated tower rose above the city like something out of a movie. There were lights everywhere, stretching into the distance until the whole world seemed to glitter.

The view was spectacular. The company was even better. We did manage to leave the room, although I won't pretend we were particularly diligent tourists. We explored the Harijuku area, visited the Museum of Modern Art (I really loathe that R. Mutt toilet), ate delicious things, and went up to some terrifyingly high observation floor where Tokyo spread beneath us in every direction. I'm not particularly afraid of heights, which is fortunate considering my profession, but there's something unsettling about standing inside a building so tall that you can barely comprehend the scale of the city beneath you. Tokyo seemed endless, a vast sea of buildings and streets stretching all the way to the horizon.

But the place that stayed with me most was the Meiji Shrine. Tucked inside a magnificent forest in the middle of Tokyo, the shrine felt like entering another world. One minute you're surrounded by the energy and noise of one of the busiest cities on Earth, and the next you're walking beneath towering trees, following wide gravel paths into a place that seems impossibly peaceful.

Maybe it's a cliche, but I think the air truly felt different there. Cooler, quieter, softened by the trees. I remember being struck by how extraordinary it was that such a serene place could exist in the middle of all that urban chaos. Everything seemed to invite you to slow down, pay attention, and appreciate where you were.

I also learned that visiting a Shinto shrine involves a little ceremony. As I understood it, you made an offering by tossing a coin into the box, bowed, clapped your hands twice to get the attention of the gods, made your prayer or wish, and bowed again. I was absolutely delighted by this.

You had to wake up the gods! Then you gave them some money, presumably to demonstrate that you were serious about your request, and hoped they might be inclined to listen. I loved the whole thing. There was something wonderfully practical and honest about the arrangement. A polite introduction, a modest financial contribution, and a respectful request for assistance. The gods had a system, and I appreciated that.

I also received a little piece of paper with words on it, something I remember as a kind of fortune. I wish I still had it, because there was something written there that I have never forgotten, because it had to do with my name.

My nickname is Maigen, pronounced like Megan, but spelled differently. I was told that the two syllables, "Mai" and "Gen," together could be interpreted as "life force." I don't know whether it was an exact translation, a poetic interpretation, or simply a lovely way of explaining the sounds of my name. I didn't care. Something about those words resonated with me immediately.

Life force. What a beautiful thing to be called. I've always been someone who throws herself into life. I want to go places, meet people, hear their stories, fall in love, have adventures, eat wonderful things, and occasionally make questionable decisions that turn into excellent stories. I don't want to wait around for the world to come to me. I want to get out there and participate in it.

Standing in that peaceful forest on the other side of the planet, having arrived there by way of a handsome passenger, a borrowed book, and a rather "Risky Business"-esque Twitter message, the idea that my name might mean life force felt wonderfully appropriate. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe it meant nothing at all. But I folded it up and tucked it away in my mental bra anyway.

The rest of our visit was a lovely blur of Tokyo, conversation, laughter, excellent food, and an absolutely unreasonable amount of time spent enjoying the amenities of our beautiful hotel room. There are certain advantages to having a lover in a foreign country, particularly when your hotel has an extraordinary view and neither of you is especially motivated to get dressed.

I will leave the more intimate details to your imagination, although I will say that Tokyo Tower was not the only thing keeping us awake at night.

When I think about Jake now, I don't necessarily think first about the sex, although it would be dishonest to suggest that I don't remember it with fond delight (that's the classy way to put it, I hear). I think about the improbable series of little decisions that brought us together. A conversation with a handsome passenger. A book I almost forgot to read. A message I could easily have talked myself out of sending. An invitation I accepted without knowing what I was walking into.

Any one of those moments could have gone differently, and this entire adventure would never have happened.

That's the thing about an interesting life. You rarely recognize the beginning of a great story while it's happening. Sometimes it looks like a casual conversation at thirty-eight thousand feet. Sometimes it's a stranger's book in your hands. Sometimes it's a man you barely know inviting you to an event and conveniently forgetting to mention that he's the main attraction. Sometimes it's a little piece of paper at a shrine in Tokyo, telling you that your name means life force.

I don't know if the gods were listening when I clapped my hands that day. I certainly hope they appreciated the change.

But I think they would have approved of how I spent the rest of my trip.

Also, go watch Tokyo Vice. They made a tv show out of the book!