Nine Auditions a Day · 🎬 Memoir Skool 📸

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Nine Auditions a Day

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Tokyo modeling was a machine — and I became one of its gears.

People think modeling in Japan is glamorous, but they don't understand the schedule, the grind, the exhaustion, the running, the subway transfers, the bicycles, the van rides, the heat, the humidity, the snow, the endless outfits stuffed in a bag, the composite cards, the smiles, the “arigato gozaimasu,” the bowing, the waiting rooms, the hallways filled with girls from every country in the world.

Nine auditions a day.

Every day.

And then — seven days of work.

That was the rhythm of my life.

One day of running around the city for castings…

and then a full week of jobs because I booked almost everything I went out for.

It wasn't arrogance — it was reality. I was extremely popular there. The clients loved my look. My energy. My expressions. My reliability. My timing. My professionalism — even at fourteen, fifteen, sixteen.

I was the girl they kept calling back.

Seven out of nine jobs?

Sometimes eight.

Sometimes all nine.

Tokyo was a city that tried to break most girls —

but it built me.

I thrived in it.

And the wildest part?

The last three years I spent in Japan… I didn't even have to do auditions anymore.

I would land in Tokyo, walk into the agency, and within hours the phone was already ringing off the hook with bookings.

No castings.

No competition.

No waiting rooms.

No swimsuit-in-a-lobby moments.

I would just roll into town, work nonstop, and roll right back out.

That's how strong my name was.

That's how wanted I was.

That's how much Japan loved Kuri-chan.

But before I got to that level, before I became the girl who didn't need castings anymore…

there was one audition — one casting among the nine-a-day madness — that changed everything.

The Okinawa job.

And I remember every second of it.

· · ·

Nine Auditions a Day

Nine auditions a day meant exactly that — nine full hours of moving, waiting, and showing up.

One audition every hour.

We would step off the subway, climb the stairs into the daylight, and walk straight toward the office building, which was usually close to the station. Tokyo was efficient like that. Everything was timed, organized, and expected to run like clockwork. Sometimes the building was only a block away. Sometimes two. Four blocks felt like a marathon, especially in heels.

Every once in a while, we would take a cab. That felt like a small luxury. If the driver pulled right up outside the subway exit, I knew I didn't have to walk anymore, and that alone made me happy. It sounds funny now, but when you've already been on your feet all day, those few saved steps felt like a gift.

There were moments when I dreaded certain stops.

I would recognize the neighborhood before we even arrived. I knew the client, the building, the long hallway, the fluorescent lights. I knew exactly how far the walk would be, and sometimes that knowledge alone made my shoulders sink just a little.

But the truth is, I loved going on auditions.

I loved the movement, the anticipation, the possibility that something special might happen that day. Most of the time, I only did the full nine-audition circuit once a week. Then I would spend the next week working the jobs I had booked. After that, it was back to auditions again.

It became obvious, even to me, that I was booking a lot.

Sometimes my agent would tell me ahead of time that I was going on a special audition. Those were the ones that made my heart beat faster. I would get excited before I even left the apartment, wondering what the job might be, what the set would look like, what kind of people I would meet.

I especially loved magazine work.

Magazines didn't pay much — not compared to commercials. We're talking the difference between four hundred dollars a day and a thousand dollars a day, sometimes more. Financially, the smart choice was always the higher-paying job.

But magazines gave me something money couldn't.

Proof.

When I saw myself in print, it felt real in a different way. I would walk to the magazine stand, find the issue, and flip through the pages until I spotted my face. Then I would buy the magazine, carefully tear out the page, and slide it into my portfolio.

That moment never got old.

It wasn't about the paycheck.

It was about seeing my work in the world — holding it in my hands and knowing I had earned my place there.

· · ·

Shoes Off

At every audition, the first thing we had to do was take off our shoes.

That was different for me.

In America, you walk into an office building with your shoes on. You sit, you wait, you do your thing, and you leave. But in Japan, before you stepped into the audition room, you stopped at the door, bent down, and slipped your shoes off — no matter what you were wearing.

It didn't matter if I showed up in combat boots, Converse, or those men's dress shoes I loved so much — wingtips. I wore wingtips all the time back then. They made me feel sharp, professional, a little bit tougher than the other girls. But none of that mattered, because the shoes never made it into the room.

They stayed at the door.

So I learned quickly to always wear socks.

That became a rule for me. Not a suggestion — a rule. Because you never wanted to be the girl standing there barefoot on a polished floor, wishing you had thought ahead. It wasn't about fashion anymore. It was about respect, preparation, and not embarrassing yourself in front of clients.

Taking off your shoes became part of the ritual.

You'd step inside quietly, line up with the other girls, and wait your turn. The room would be calm, orderly, almost silent except for the sound of names being called. Everyone stood there in their socks, holding their composure, ready to be seen.

And even now, all these years later, that habit never left me.

Just the other day, they wanted me to get on the school bus, and the rule was the same — take off your shoes. I looked down and realized I wasn't wearing socks, and I thought: Nope. I'm not doing that.

Some lessons stay with you forever.

· · ·

Packing for Paradise

After I booked the Okinawa job — me and that one other girl out of hundreds — I floated out of that hotel like my feet weren't even touching the ground. I don't remember the train ride home. I don't remember what I ate. I don't remember who I talked to.

All I remember is packing.

As I stood in my little Tokyo apartment behind the shoji screen, I opened my one big suitcase and started laying out clothes like I was packing for paradise.

It wasn't just a job…

It wasn't just money…

It wasn't even just the prestige…

It was escape.

I had been in Tokyo seven months straight, working nonstop, auditioning nonstop, sweating through those humid months, freezing through winter, never hearing English unless I called home, never stopping to breathe.

My body needed air.

My spirit needed space.

My heart needed calm.

And Okinawa — those islands, those beaches, those turquoise waters — felt like salvation.

As I folded my clothes, I kept imagining myself lying on white sand, sun on my back, warm breeze on my skin, no trains, no schedules, no nine auditions a day… just ocean and sky and quiet.

I imagined palm trees. Blue water. Heat that wasn't Tokyo heat — not the wet, heavy, suffocating kind — but tropical heat, the beautiful kind that feels like a hug.

I imagined waking up and hearing waves instead of traffic. Laughing with the other girl instead of pushing through crowds of models. Shooting on beaches instead of in studios.

I was so happy packing that suitcase, I almost cried.

Everything felt lighter.

Hopeful.

Like a reset button.

I folded my swimsuits carefully — the same ones I hated auditioning in, but didn't mind shooting in. I packed shorts, dresses, sunglasses, sandals… clothes that smelled like freedom.

And as I zipped that big suitcase closed, I felt this wave of excitement roll through me:

I was going to Okinawa. For ten whole days. For work — but for peace, too.

Imagine me, a girl from the Valley,

lying on the islands of Japan

because I was chosen.

Because I earned it.

Because I was Kuri-chan,

And Japan loved me.

· · ·

Arrival in Okinawa

The second the airplane wheels touched down in Okinawa, I felt it.

A softness in the air.

A warmth that didn't suffocate — it embraced.

A humidity that felt tropical, not heavy.

Like Hawaii, but Japanese.

Exotic, calm, healing.

A world away from Tokyo.

A shuttle was waiting for us outside the airport. Just me, the other girl, and about fifteen crew members — photographers, makeup artists, wardrobe stylists, assistants, lighting techs, producers… a whole caravan of professionals who had flown across Japan for this one catalog job.

It felt big. Important. And I felt proud just being part of that group.

We climbed into the shuttle, the doors hissed shut, and I stared out the window like a little kid, soaking in every palm tree, every stretch of coastline, every glimpse of turquoise blue between the buildings.

Okinawa didn't look anything like Japan. It didn't feel like Tokyo, Osaka, Kyoto — it felt like a tropical island dream.

The drive from the airport to the hotel was quiet, peaceful, almost magical. Green hills, wide beaches, and water so clear you could see the sand from the road.

And then we pulled up to the hotel.

It wasn't just big — it was huge.

A resort. Tall, wide, white, elegant, with a massive lobby and glass walls looking out to the ocean. A place I would have never been able to afford on my own. A place I couldn't believe I was staying in. A place my job — my career — brought me to.

Inside, the cool air conditioning brushed against my skin, and I felt a wave of peace wash over me.

I had made it. Really made it.

Me, the girl from the Valley,

who had never even seen a Japanese person before she landed in Tokyo…

was now walking into a luxury resort in Okinawa

because a company from Shinjuku wanted me for their big catalog.

Fifteen crew members. Two models. Ten days in paradise.

It felt like a dream.

And standing there in that hotel lobby — for just a moment — I forgot all about exhaustion, or missing home, or heartbreak, or the grind of nine auditions a day.

I was exactly where I was meant to be.

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Sneaking into the Hotel Nightclub

By the time I went to Okinawa, I wasn't new to Japan anymore.

I had already lived there a few years. I understood the rhythm, the culture, the work, the nightlife, the freedom. I knew what it meant to be a teenage model in a foreign country with doors opening everywhere for you.

And on this trip, it was just me and one other girl from the casting. Let's call her Jenny.

After the shuttle dropped us off and we checked into our room — a big, clean, cool room with two beds and a balcony that looked out toward the ocean — Jenny told me:

"They're taking us to dinner tonight."

We changed quickly, put on a little makeup, and headed downstairs.

Dinner was at a long table with all the crew — the photographer, makeup artists, wardrobe girls, lighting team, producer, and assistants. About fifteen of them. Just two of us.

They were kind, polite, professional — very Japanese. They kept filling our plates, bowing slightly each time they passed us something. It felt like being with family, but the kind of family that doesn't talk too much at dinner and eats very neatly.

We told them we were exhausted. Jet lagged. Going to bed early.

They nodded. They believed us.

But Jenny and I had already made a silent plan with one look across the table:

We were absolutely not going to bed.

We were 16 and 17 years old — teenagers — and we had been living in Tokyo long enough to know exactly how to walk into any club in Roppongi like we were royalty. Models got VIP everywhere. We ate for free. We drank for free. We were welcomed like celebrities, no IDs, no questions.

So the idea of being stuck in a hotel room — in Okinawa, of all places — while there was a nightclub downstairs? Not happening.

As soon as dinner ended, we politely bowed, smiled, and said:

"Thank you so much… we're very tired… good night."

They waved. They headed to their rooms.

And the moment they disappeared around the corner, Jenny grabbed my arm and whispered:

"Let's go."

We were out the door in seconds, running back to the elevator, laughing quietly like two girls who knew they shouldn't be doing what they were doing — but also knew they absolutely were.

The hotel nightclub was tucked behind a set of gold-trimmed glass doors, dark and glowing, with music thumping underneath.

We didn't even hesitate.

We opened the doors and walked in like we owned the place.

And of course — nobody stopped us.

Nobody asked how old we were. Nobody questioned anything. Because that's how it was for models. We had been getting into VIP clubs in Roppongi for years by then. Tiny, almost-child models from all over the world, treated like stars every night.

So sneaking into a hotel nightclub in Okinawa felt practically innocent.

Jenny and I slipped to the bar, ordered sodas with cherries in them like the underage girls we were, and soaked in the energy of the room — the lights, the music, the freedom.

Two teenage girls

on a big job,

in a tropical paradise,

stealing a little adventure

before ten days of shooting.

We had no idea the crew probably didn't want us down there. Or maybe we did… and didn't care.

At that age, the world felt wide open. Japan felt like a playground. And that night, so did the hotel.

We didn't drink alcohol. We weren't wild. We were just young — and curious — and alive.

And honestly?

It was the perfect way to start ten of the best days of my early modeling life.

· · ·

The Tiny Plane to Paradise

The next morning — after the disaster in the hotel room, after a night of barely sleeping and praying the crew didn't find out — the producer told us:

"We're going to the airport. We're renting a smaller plane."

I thought he meant a small plane like a commuter aircraft.

No.

He meant small-small. A private charter. A little tin can with wings that could fit the fifteen of us… and barely.

When we got to the airport, the plane looked like a toy version of a real airplane — tiny seats, narrow aisle, equipment jammed into every corner, windows barely the size of your hand.

It felt like something Barbie would fly.

But we climbed aboard anyway — me, Jenny, the photographer, makeup, wardrobe, lighting techs, assistants, the producer — every one of us squeezing into this flying sardine can with smiles like:

"We're totally safe… right?"

Once the engine started and we lifted off the ground, my stomach stayed behind at the airport.

We flew SO low over the ocean that it felt like we were skimming the water, like any dip in the air would put us right into the waves. When I pressed my forehead to the glass, I could actually see fish swimming below us — clear as day, bright against the turquoise water.

I kept thinking:

"Are we going to make it?"

and

"This is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

And both were true.

The flight was short, but unforgettable — the kind of ride where everyone laughs because they're scared, smiles because they're excited, and holds onto the seat in front of them because the plane shakes every time it hits ocean wind.

Finally, we dipped lower…

lower…

And landed on the island of Naha, a small honeymoon island so perfect it didn't seem real.

Everything was brand new. Everything was white. Every building had arches, columns, and curved walkways like a dream version of Greece — bright, clean, glowing in the sun.

The sand looked untouched, the water sparkled like liquid glass, and the entire shoreline seemed as if it had been designed, not discovered.

We stepped off the plane, and the breeze hit us — warm, soft, tropical — and for the first time in months, I felt my whole spirit exhale.

Tokyo was far away.

Home was far away.

Problems were far away.

Here, everything was blue sky, white buildings, and endless ocean.

A honeymoon island,

a paradise island,

and for ten days…

our island.

· · ·

No Healing Time — Just Work

There wasn't a single second to emotionally heal from the burnout. Not one.

That peaceful walk on the white sand… that moment with God… that breath I took on the beach…

It was over in minutes.

Because the reality was: I wasn't in Okinawa for vacation. I was there for work.

And it was intense.

The catalog was huge — hundreds of outfits every single day, nonstop changes, hair and makeup flipping looks every hour, wardrobe racks as tall as the ceiling, photographers calling out directions, assistants running, lights flashing, sand getting everywhere.

Ten days straight.

No days off.

No breaks.

No naps.

No, "you look tired."

No "take the afternoon to rest."

This was a Japanese production. This was full-speed, military-precision, no-emotion, no-complaints, work until the job is done modeling.

As exhausted as I was — as drained as Tokyo had left me — I didn't have the luxury of slowing down.

But even in the middle of that whirlwind, I kept looking around thinking:

This is the most beautiful place I've ever seen.

And I meant it.

Because I had already been to Hawaii… and this wasn't Hawaii.

This was Okinawa.

Different.

Quieter.

More untouched.

More spiritual.

More raw.

More Japanese.

More sacred.

The colors were deeper.

The ocean was clearer.

The beaches were emptier.

The air was thicker, sweeter, softer.

Hawaii was a tourist paradise. Okinawa was a soul paradise.

Even when I was changing outfits for the hundredth time, standing barefoot on hot sand, sweating under the lights, with a team of Japanese crew members rushing around me…

I would steal glances at the horizon and whisper to myself:

"I'm so lucky to be here."

Even burned out.

Even tired.

Even overwhelmed.

Even with a thousand responsibilities

and a thousand outfits

and a thousand expectations…

Okinawa still felt like God's gift.

It was the only time in my early career where beauty and exhaustion lived right on top of each other — but the beauty always won.

· · ·

Returning to Tokyo — Quiet Streets and Snow

When the plane touched down in Tokyo, I felt this deep wave of relief wash over me.

We made it.

Back to the city.

Back to routine.

Back to familiarity.

But something was different.

When I walked outside Narita and made my way back into Tokyo proper, I noticed the streets felt… quiet.

Not empty. Tokyo is never empty. But softer. Calmer. Gentler.

It took me a moment to realize why:

It was between Christmas and New Year's.

Most of the foreign models had flown home for the holidays. Agencies were slow. Photographers were on break. Clients paused production. And for once, the city didn't feel like a machine chewing me up.

It felt like it was sleeping.

A thin dusting of snow drifted through the air — tiny white flakes floating down between the high-rises, catching the glow of the street lamps. It wasn't heavy snow. Just enough to make the city feel magical… and less crowded than usual.

My agent could tell I was exhausted from the Okinawa job — and from months of nonstop work. And for the first time in forever, she said:

"Cristal… you may take some days off."

Those words were a miracle. A gift. A breath I didn't know I needed until it hit my lungs.

I didn't waste one second of it.

I slept in. I bundled up. I put on a coat, boots, and gloves. And I left the apartment by myself with no plan, no schedule, no auditions, no rush.

I spent those days doing what I loved most in Tokyo when I actually had time:

Boat rides along the Sumida River. Train rides through neighborhoods I couldn't pronounce. Taxi rides to random places I had never explored.

I wandered like a local. Like a girl in love with a city. Like someone rediscovering her joy.

I walked through tiny streets with paper lanterns glowing. I browsed the little shops full of things I didn't understand. I sat in quiet parks watching snow land softly on bare branches. I explored shrines, markets, alleyways, bridges… all the parts of Tokyo that most foreigners never see.

I was alone — but not lonely. Just peaceful. Curious. Resting. Healing in my own way.

Those quiet days after Okinawa reminded me why Japan felt like home:

It wasn't just the work. It wasn't just the success. It wasn't the money, the agencies, the jobs, or the castings.

It was the feeling of being free in a place where I didn't know my past. A place where I could walk around unnoticed, unharmed, unbothered. A place where even winter felt gentle.

For those few days, Tokyo didn't demand anything of me.

It just let me breathe.

I knew I was standing in one of the most beautiful moments of my life.

· · ·

The Moment I Knew My Calling

Walking out of that building in Ginza — after leading those girls into the casting, after introducing every single one of them, after watching the clients book our entire agency because of the way we showed up…

something shifted inside me.

It was subtle,

quiet,

but unmistakable.

A knowing.

A voice inside my heart whispered:

"You're not just here to model. You're here to lead."

That night, at maybe sixteen or seventeen years old, standing on a Ginza sidewalk with the neon lights reflecting in puddles on the ground, I realized something that would shape the rest of my life:

I wanted to be in management.

Not for money.

Not for status.

Not for being in charge.

But because I LOVED IT.

I loved helping other girls succeed. I loved lifting people up. I loved giving direction, confidence, and clarity. I loved seeing someone walk into a room and shine because of something I taught them. I loved watching dreams come true — not just for me, but for EVERYONE around me.

Forty years later, nothing has changed.

I still love guiding people. I still love creating opportunities. I still love being a positive influence in someone's life. I still love seeing a new model, actor, or performer finally believe in themselves. I still love helping people step into the industry… and step into their identity.

Because the truth is:

The joy has always been in the giving.

And that night in Ginza, after nine auditions, at eight o'clock at night, in a city far from home…

I discovered one of the greatest gifts God ever placed in my heart:

The desire to help others become everything they were meant to be.

· · ·

I Escaped Hollywood, Barely.

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Nine Auditions a Day