When its doors opened in April 1984, in an area where it was, and indeed still is, surrounded by other soaplands and countless other establishments serving sex-related services, it must have seemed that success for the Queen Chateau was a certainty.
But it wasn’t.
And, according to different sources, it closed those same doors once suggestively thrown open that very same year, or, somewhat slightly less disastrously, several years later in 1987.
But either way, it’s still a mystery why it failed, although at the same time it is fairly safe to say that it wasn’t down to a lack of effort in regards the decor, due to its charmingly restrained chateau-like chic.
However, regardless of such fineries, it’s probable that phone rang more in relation to payment requests rather than reservations.
And the rooms, where the place’s ten working girls once plied their trade, are now arguably more sordid than any of the activities that were once performed in them.
The remaining furnishings hinting at the soapy shenanigans that briefly went on there.
Which, it seems, often involved these uncomfortable looking plastic chairs.
But definitely not their more comfortable and cushion-bearing cousins.
And yet as unquestionably pleasurable as soapland must be for the punter, for those paid to please, it must have been (and be) an especially different experience. One were a couple of drinks or some other concoction can’t have just been nice, but a necessity.
A point that became immediately apparent upon stepping inside the Queen Chateau, as, due to the main doors being boarded up, a rear entry was the only option, instead of a once less difficultly negotiated front one; leading us through a depressingly dark and horribly confined area with packed-in bunk beds and basic cooking and toilet facilities — a part of the building where the staff obviously once slept and spent their free (or possibly not so free) time.
The unlit and warren-like nature of the place meant that taking pictures was impossible, but at the same time, it made the sight of business cards suggesting euphemistic visits to ‘tearooms’ (ティールーム) with the likes of Jean (ジーン) and Claudia (クラウディア) all the more unsettling.
When it comes to hunting down haikyo/abandoned buildings, books and the web offer a wealth of information and photos, but the trouble is, the latter means that the surprise isn’t quite the same, as you’ve already seen at least some of the structure before even setting foot inside it. So, with this in mind, coming across a place that hasn’t been pictured before is a real treat, and definitely a real rush, as what lies behind every door is a new discovery.
A situation that fortunately arose recently when a friend and I were in search of a no longer in use love hotel, and instead stumbled upon an abandoned and luckily unlocked ‘Scandinavian’ lodge. A relatively small place that didn’t contain a great deal content wise, but it did boast that firm favourite of all haikyo, a phone.
Along with statues of what are presumably Scandinavian beauties.
With silent stares that were really quite unsettling.
Especially so when coupled with a less fetching figure.
A photo of which turned out to be my final one, as, totally unannounced, and utterly unheard, an irate local came barging through the doors behind me, and in no uncertain terms said I should leave — a man who sadly couldn’t be appeased no matter how much I apologised.
Meaning no more time to take pictures, and definitely no time for a cheeky cup of tea and a couple of buns.
Considering the state of the first floor, and the random bits and bobs pictured in part 1, it wasn’t at all surprising to find that the hotel had its last guests and then locked up for good in the early 1990s.
Plus, when one heads to the higher floors, it’s similarly unsurprising to discover that it started doing business in the summer of 1973, as the decor is still undoubtedly of that decade.
And seeing that it obviously wasn’t changed once in the twenty years or so it was operational, it’s no surprise either that the hotel eventually surrendered to insolvency. As walks down the numerous corridors.
Along with a rummage around in the large number of rooms.
Resulted in nothing but the same colour schemes.
And wallpaper that wouldn’t be exactly what most people would want to wake up to.
In fact the only real difference was the state of disrepair.
Which no amount of dandyism can now hope to disguise.
And yet for those people who did stay here, the hotel at least offered some really quite lovely views.
Which could well have been nice to have a coffee by.
But now, after nearly twenty years of being left abandoned to nothing but birds, everything sits silent and soiled.
Meaning no room service.
No room calls.
And definitely no sitting in one’s room and relaxing in front of The Rockford Files.
Situated in the popular tourist area of Izu, and surrounded by expensive holiday homes, this bleak and now abandoned building is an eyesore that must regularly irritate those on a rest break, let alone local residents.
A hotel that must once have hummed with the sound of holidaymakers on short trips away from Tokyo, but now it’s pretty much silent apart from the steady drips from damaged drain pipes and the wind from broken windows.
Meaning that there’s definitely no point in calling reception.
Regardless of whether it be for a kiddie chair.
Some condiments.
A cartridge for a bit of karaoke.
Or even a complaint about the cleanliness.
Although in the office, where the staff experienced both the highs of the hotel’s opening day, and the lows of its last one, there are still plenty of signs of past activity — some of which, despite the hotel closing in the early 1990s, still feels as though it was fairly recent.
Such as still full filing cabinets.
Unused business cards.
And bills to prove that, back in the day at least, they did manage to do some business.
But that was then and this is now, and regardless of whether it was hurt by changing times, or hampered by bad management, the enterprise was a gamble that well and truly didn’t pay off.
In part 2, which can be seen here, I’ll take a look at the distinctly 70s style rooms, and their decidedly dismal deterioration.
When entering any school it’s only natural to expect a noisy greeting from the sounds of the students within, but not in Nichitsu mining town, as an ever-dwindling number of children due to the gradual decline of the area’s mining activities meant the community’s school was eventually forced to close its doors in the early 1970s — a decision that now makes the institution a very different place indeed, even before one actually enters, with no need anymore to change from outdoor shoes, to indoor ones.
And where kids once careered down the corridors.
Or clattered in and out of classrooms, regardless of the rules.
There is now only silence.
A silence that’s all the more noticeable due to the signs of so many sounds — especially those made by the students who once studied here.
Like drums left discarded.
Or pianos that are now unplayable, let alone unplayed.
Plus a varied selection of recorded music. In this case a nostalgic piece of vinyl that for some reason T.M. didn’t take home.
Instead choosing to leave it behind in a room that’ll never again have any festive cheer funnelled through its speakers.
And in Japan, where all manner of rules are continually, almost religiously, repeated, this discarded and slightly damaged megaphone seems especially subdued.
Silently suggestive of the sounds that were once an integral, and no doubt sometimes irritating, part of the school.
