Mikaela opens our Sapphic Tales series with an introspective piece about what Lesbian spaces 'look' like. At one end of the continuum, she recounts electric nights abroad, buoyed by the currents of live music and excitement. At the other, she speaks to local outings - less eventful, but no-less meaningful. Sink into her mahi below 👇

I was in Tokyo with my partner, Roxy, and we stumbled across this awesome little spot. I remember feeling excited to take on the big city, but I'm sure a lot of nerves were under the surface too. We were on the border of the city’s queer district, but I don’t think this place was aimed at lesbians specifically. 9.9 times out of 10, a sign like GIRLS - GIRLS - GIRLS is advertising for cis-het men.

I’m from Palmerston North, so I didn’t grow up seeing queer women around me. If I saw glitzed and glammed dancers at a distant Pride event, or a flannel-clad, Ms.-Frizzle-looking girl on TV, my mind went first to the sense of otherness that being queer entails.

GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS: a bright neon sign glowed in the night. It’s dark, but not late enough for Roxy and I to change frequency just yet. We were weary from the day of walking and talking within the towering city. We were more suited for a sit-down than a strip show.

‘Let’s come back here babe,’ I said.

In Melbourne, on another travel adventure, we’d been to a band I really love. The Beaches were opening for G-Flip: I had to make the effort to fly over and see them. They’re both queer bands, so they have a huge following of lesbians and other queer women. The crowd would have been 95% AFAB, but just a massive spectrum of people. You could tell everyone was just very open, and, because the bands knew their audience, they really leant into the vibe.

We carried on down the alley to a shoebox bar on the bottom floor. Amongst the massive metropolis, the odds that we found (what turned out to be) a proper lesbian bar astounds me now, but we did. The owners had even put a ‘girls only sat’ sign up, behind the bar. Thank you, universe over Japan.

We were there like a couple of hours, met some people, and made such cool memories of the place. It was like our little log-cabin pitstop amongst the concrete jungle of the city. It was really tiny, but it was amazing. The city makes everything small I guess, and because the bar was packed out and gave this really cool femme energy, it amplified the experience. We were there for a couple of hours, had gathered a great crowd, and the night needed to continue.

First, let me talk about Palmerston North. Do you know what a pub looks like in Palmerston North? It has sticky, centuries-old wood floors, stale beer, and withering houseplants. The gurgle of an overworked deep fryer syncopates rattly SHARP microwaves, both still battling on from the 80s. There will be fish and other dead animals on the walls. There’s a nostalgic charm to it, I guess, but it’s hardly the space you’d clock for a Ginger’s pop-up.

The scarcity [nonexistence?] of strictly lesbian bars means that we’re often making spaces our own. Our concrete alleyway in Japan was bit of an exception to that claim; however, in New Plymouth, where Roxy and I now live together, we just claim the corner of some local pub. As you mature into your queer friend networks, which often span across city boundaries, it means you can reach out and host friends from near or far. Between myself, my partner, and our friend circle, we each keep the other topped up on social outings and new connections.

GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS was a karaoke bar the size of a wardrobe, but it was fucking game. My partner and our crew took to the microphones with other girls from the bar downstairs and just howled with joy into the night. The singing would have been terrible, but it was such a vibe. Instead of windows, which I’m sure would have offered the most luscious view of the city, the whole thing was plastered in floral wallpaper (Georgia Okeefe, anyone?).

As it turned out, the karaoke joint was a sister venue to the bar downstairs. They used to share the premises, before the dinky lesbian bar proved too popular as a meeting spot. Singing out over the manic frenzy of Tokyo, we felt joyous for this pocket of community we’d stumbled upon.

I don’t think Sapphic spaces will ever be like the gay bars you see in movies. History or politics or patriarchy – or all at once – are likely to blame. But the delight a space of belonging can give you is the same. When we claim a sports bar as our own to watching the Wāhine Warriors or White Ferns, we know our bubble of community is based on shared experiences. Even more intense, surely, when those finds are stumbled upon (like our night in Tokyo). Community, for me, is always connected with a throughline interest, like the live gig we may be fizzing for or the karaoke lyrics that we’re racing through. 

My experiences with consciously going out to a lesbian space are not actually that memorable. Instances where we make them Sapphic spaces, however? Those are what I hold on to the sharpest.