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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Day 5 turned into a wonderful tour through my Tokyo network, with each meeting tied to a different part of my journey in Japan. I started the morning with Joe Pournovin in Mita, then headed to lunch with Gaz Monteath, followed by my very first visit to the Foreign Correspondents Club for coffee with Gary Bremerman. I wrapped up the day with another first, a visit to the Tokyo American Club to see Michael Case. It felt like revisiting all the paths that have shaped my work, friendships, and sense of belonging in Tokyo.

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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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When people talk about Japan, they often mention tiny apartments, compact cars and neatly packed bento boxes. What they forget is that the same philosophy of compact perfection also applies to drinks. Exhibit A in today’s picture, a very serious three year aged umeshu in a bottle that is almost the same size as my apple.

In most countries, this amount of alcohol would be called a sample or a tasting. In Japan, it is a fully legitimate product with barcode, brand story and great pride. It is just… small. One elegant sip, maybe two if you are disciplined, and that is it. A complete experience in a tiny cup.

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Last week I confessed my tiny, harmless, definitely‑not‑a‑problem addiction to buying cat-themed things in Japan.

Admitting it is the first step, right?

So this week, while feeling very proud of myself for not having purchased any new cat items, mostly because I’m not even in Japan anymore, I decided to be productive and organize my photo files. And that’s when this popped up.

Every country has its own version of “things you casually stumble upon that make you question whether you’re still on the same planet.” In Japan? That thing is the tanuki.

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If you’ve spent more than five minutes with me, you know two things:

1. I lived in Japan for quite a while.

2. 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.

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If you’ve ever wandered through Kamakura, or better yet, hopped on the charming Enoden line, you know this coastal region is full of surprises. Temples tucked into hillsides, hydrangeas blooming along railway tracks, and little details that make you stop and smile. Today’s photo is one of those details: four tiny metal birds perched on a rail, dressed head-to-tail in bright red knitwear.

Yes, you read that right: knitwear for birds.

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