Ueno Park was full of surprises, but some of them came at head height.

If you spent enough weekends there, you eventually encountered them. Street performers sitting very still, dressed in traditional-looking clothing, wearing impossibly tall, exaggerated towering headpieces that made you stop and stare. They looked calm. Respectable. Almost ceremonial.

This was a trap.

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I’ve never climbed Mt. Fuji.

I’ve thought about it many times, and I know so many people who have done it, but somehow it never quite happened.

What I have done, though, is collect a surprising number of Mt. Fuji–shaped things.

And recently, this very precise little yokan.

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This week I learned something both comforting and slightly alarming: my long‑standing obsession with cats is not just personal. It is economic.

After reading about Japan’s so‑called catnomics, the term used to describe the very real money generated by the country’s feline fixation, I had a small moment of clarity. All those years I spent surrounded by cat‑themed everything were not simply the result of weak willpower and good design. They were the outcome of a system that understands exactly how culture, emotion, and spending intersect.

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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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Working with Japanese colleagues and especially living with my Japanese husband, I’ve learned that oyaji gyagu and dad jokes are cousins, not twins. Same love of puns, same tolerance for groans but very different rules of engagement.

The classic expat example still makes the rounds:
“When did the Japanese start eating eggs? A long tamago.”
Among expats or bilingual colleagues, it usually gets a chuckle. In a fully Japanese setting, though, it’s a lot of linguistic effort for a very modest return.

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This week’s Fun Friday topic comes from my kitchen rather than a conference room and involves a bubbling jar that has caused more than one raised eyebrow in my very Japan-focused world.

Yes, I’ve started making kombucha. And no, I do not mean kombu-cha, the comforting Japanese seaweed tea many of us know and love. That distinction has become surprisingly important.

Like many people, I was first introduced to kombucha as something you buy, not something you raise. It shows up in health food stores looking suspiciously like soda, tastes somewhere between vinegar and fruit juice, and promises all kinds of gut-related miracles. At some point, possibly after one too many conversations about fermentation traditions in Japan, I thought it might be interesting to try making it myself.

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For Fun Friday, I want to invite you to think for a moment about your own long‑running professional struggles. The ones you have worked around for years, compensated for, maybe even joked about, but never quite solved. For me, that was polite and business Japanese.

After more than 30 years of living and working with Japan, I could function just fine. I could participate in meetings, manage relationships, and get my point across. And yet, business Japanese always felt like a trap. I vividly remember trying so hard to be polite that I once said almost the opposite of what I actually meant. I looked over and saw my husband’s eyebrows slowly rise, which told me everything I needed to know about how that had landed. Moments like that are funny in retrospect, but in the moment they are frustrating and confidence‑shaking.

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