There is a very specific kind of luxury in Japan that starts with almost no planning at all.

You just get on a train.

Atami was always that place for me. Close enough to Tokyo that it barely feels like a trip, but just far enough for something to shift. In under an hour, the city drops away, the air turns softer with the sea nearby, and a weekend suddenly feels within reach.

I used to go there more often than I had any real reason to. Not for sightseeing, not for a checklist, but for onsen.

There is something about hot spring water that resets you faster than anything else. You arrive carrying a bit of Tokyo with you, and within minutes, that background noise fades.

What I always liked about Atami is how easily that starts. Even at the station.

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I didn’t realize tiny towels were a thing until I lived in Japan.

At some point, without making a conscious decision, I just started carrying one. Folded neatly. Always in my bag. It became as automatic as grabbing my phone or wallet.

Public restrooms don’t always have paper towels. Sometimes there’s an air dryer, sometimes nothing at all. So you dry your hands on your own towel, fold it back up, and move on. No fuss. No dripping hands. No awkward shaking them dry.

Over time, you stop noticing you’re doing it.

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I have a soft spot for gachapon.

You know the machines: rows and rows of them, standing quietly in train stations, shopping centers, and random corners you didn’t expect to be charming. You put in a few coins, turn the handle, and out comes a plastic capsule with a tiny surprise inside.

I don’t seek them out deliberately. I just… notice them. And somehow I almost always stop.

What I love is the seriousness with which people approach them. Full-grown adults crouching down, scanning the display with intense concentration. Office workers in suits carefully opening capsules like they’re handling something precious. People comparing what they got with friends, or sighing dramatically at a duplicate.

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A few weeks ago I shared my excitement about finding Chocorooms at Costco, which felt like a tiny wink from Japan hiding in the middle of an American warehouse. I honestly assumed that would be the highlight of my snack discoveries for a while.

I was wrong.

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Whenever I travel between the US and Japan, I am reminded of how the same global brand can feel completely different depending on where you are. McDonald’s is the perfect example. In Japan, it is simply tastier. The food is fresher, the presentation is neater, and the Japan only items feel genuinely well executed instead of gimmicky.

Even though it is fast food, the Japanese sense of care shines through. The lettuce is crisp. The fries arrive actually hot. The burgers look intentionally assembled rather than rushed. And everything is seasoned with this magical just right balance that feels almost respectful.

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There are moments when living abroad makes you feel unexpectedly and delightfully five years old again. A few weekends ago, mine happened in the middle of Costco. I was cruising past the giant bags of chips and industrial sized Nutella when something made me stop so abruptly that the person behind me had to brake: Chocorooms. Actual, honest to goodness, mushroom shaped Japanese chocolate biscuits. In my American Costco.

As a Belgian, I should probably be ashamed to admit how excited I got. Belgian chocolate standards are a bit like Belgian traffic rules, strict, precise, and deeply ingrained. And let’s be honest, Chocorooms are not that kind of chocolate. They are not rich artisanal pralines with glossy shells and delicate ganache fillings. They are cheerful little snack mushrooms that taste like childhood and convenience stores and the promise of a long train ride with too many treats. And that is exactly why I love them.

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Japan has a wonderful habit of surprising you with things you absolutely did not expect to find, like walking around Tokyo and suddenly spotting the Statue of Liberty greeting you from across the water. One minute you’re in Odaiba, admiring Rainbow Bridge and the futuristic skyline, and the next you’re lining up a photo that looks suspiciously like New York… except it’s definitely not.

What makes this moment even more special for me is the timing. I took this picture about a month before I moved to the US in 2018. At the time, I had no idea what life in America would look like or how much of Japan I’d end up missing. Fast forward to now: I live in the Bay Area, surrounded by plenty of iconic American scenery, and yet, true to form, I still haven’t made it to New York. My first, and so far only, encounter with Lady Liberty remains firmly rooted in Tokyo. Somehow that feels perfectly on‑brand for my cross‑cultural life.

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One of the great joys of living in Japan is discovering that the parts of the chicken many Western kitchens throw away are, in fact, the absolute best bits. Exhibit A for today’s Fun Friday deliciousness: yakitori with chicken skin, or kawa, grilled to golden, salty, slightly chewy perfection. And if you’re wondering why mine looks especially beautiful in the photo, it’s because I happen to live with a man who has quietly become an expert yakitori chef. Lucky me indeed.

There is something magical about chicken skin on a skewer. When it hits the grill, the fat starts to render just enough to crisp the edges while leaving the inside soft and rich. A quick brush of tare gives it that glossy, caramelized finish. Paired with negi, the Japanese spring onion that somehow becomes sweeter on the grill, you get this perfect balance of textures and flavors. It’s the kind of food that makes you instinctively lean forward after the first bite, already plotting the next skewer.

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