Japan buried me in cats… and California is my unexpected detox program
If you’ve spent more than five minutes with me, you know two things:
I lived in Japan for quite a while.
I will buy literally anything if it has a cat on it.
Japan, of course, turned this harmless preference into a full‑blown lifestyle hazard.
Walking around Tokyo or any Japanese town basically meant being ambushed, lovingly, relentlessly, by felines. They appeared on stationery, on chopsticks, on tea cups, on train passes, on socks, on umbrellas (yes, I owned that umbrella), and of course on an infinite array of snacks. I had long stopped pretending I had any “restraint.” I didn’t. If it purred, pawed, waved, meowed, or even vaguely suggested a whisker… it was coming home with me.
The photo with this article was taken at Gotokuji Temple, the spiritual home of the beloved maneki‑neko, the beckoning cat. Being there always felt like someone had looked directly into my soul and declared, “Yes. She needs thousands of tiny ceramic cats arranged in neat little armies.” Everywhere you turned, rows of white cats with raised paws stood guard, forming the fluffiest battalion imaginable. I always told myself I’d just look, but inevitably I’d walk away with another one, because obviously, the forty‑seven already at home might get lonely.
Of course, Gotokuji was only the beginning. Japan is dotted with cat‑themed shrines, temples, alleyways, and even entire villages, as if the country collectively agreed that cats are not only charming companions but also sacred carriers of luck and joy. I fully supported this national decision and immersed myself in it with no hesitation whatsoever.
And then came the shopping. Japan had absolutely perfected the cat aesthetic, and every shop felt like a gentle ambush. There were the impossibly cute neko stationery items at Loft, the small pottery studios where artisans crafted cat‑shaped mugs and dishes, and the stores devoted entirely to feline merchandise, including one in Kamakura that I could never pass without at least pausing at the window, if not walking straight in. “Just browsing” simply wasn’t an option; the sequence was always the same: step inside, squeal, buy everything in sight, and later wonder what happened to my self‑control.
Over time I accumulated cat towels, cat chopstick rests, cat-shaped soy sauce dishes, cat phone straps, cat post‑its, cat incense holders, more than any reasonable person could justify. Even my non‑cat‑loving friends began surrendering to the inevitability of it all and gifting me cat items, because resistance was clearly futile. If Japan had a Cat Merch Loyalty Program, I would have reached Diamond Elite without even trying.
And then everything changed when I moved to California. Suddenly I found myself in a place where I was, to my own surprise, relatively safe. California certainly has cute shops and the occasional delightful cat item, but compared to Japan’s constant, almost celebratory flood of feline-themed everything, it felt like moving from a bustling metropolis into a quiet countryside. My wallet relaxed, my shelves stopped multiplying, and I discovered I could walk into a store and emerge without a new ceramic friend. The whole situation felt suspiciously healthy.
Do I still adore anything with a cat on it? Absolutely. Do I still buy things with cats on them? Of course. But the pace is now more measured, almost reasonable. Japan will always be the place that transformed my simple fondness for cats into a defining characteristic, and whenever I visit, I know I’ll return with a suitcase clinking with new treasures. For now, though, I live quite contentedly in California, safe-ish, perhaps, but forever alert for the next whiskered temptation.
