I’ve been vaguely familiar with Gachapon for years—but always from a distance. Thinking back, it’s been about 40 years since my first encounter with it. Damn, that’s a long time. My stomach tightens at the thought, and just as it does, a faint breeze drifts over my male-patterned bald head. Aye, I don’t like that. On my way to turn on the tea kettle, I grab a neon orange skully and absentmindedly rub the grey hairs in my beard, hoping to tap into some kind of nostalgic frequency—for you and for me.
If you’re not picking up what I’m putting down, let me spell it out—this little share session is really just me admitting that I am old af now. And trying to recall the first time I unknowingly stumbled upon this uniquely Japanese culture of capsule vending machines? That should be likened to a full-blown Cirque du Soleil act. I’ll pull off the death-defying feat, but not without a few poetic tangents and at least one moment of where exactly are you going with this?
I’m from South Jamaica, Queens, where bodegas sat on damn near every corner, packed with everything that made childhood feel indulgent. These spots were the heart of our food desert—overflowing with ten-cent candy like Jawbreakers and Lemonheads, ice pops, and every potato chip flavor imaginable. Well, within a narrow but sacred spectrum: BBQ, Salt and Vinegar, Sour Cream and Onion, and maybe Taco if you got lucky. But one thing those bodegas never had, at least in my neighborhood? Vending machines with toys.
I remember learning one of my greatest lessons about expectations—that they’ll get you nowhere—every time I bought Cracker Jacks. I kept thinking there’d be an actual toy inside, and every damn time, I got a weak-ass temporary tattoo or a stupid sticker. And every time, I cussed. Mostly because that’s what kids my age did back then… or maybe that was just me. But those prizes were garbage—and on top of that, they were stingy with the peanuts.
And don’t get me started on the decline of cereal box prizes. Back in the early ’90s, I’d dig my bare hands into a fresh box of cereal, fishing for a Wacky WallWalker, a Rescue Rangers stamper, or a mini pack of Cherry Cola Nerds. And yeah, I won quite a bit back in those days. That was gambling to me—but on my mom’s dime. Then one day, I reached in and came up with nothing but cereal. Just cereal.
No wonder profanity was so damn popular back then.
The only saving grace was the grocery store. Places like C-Town, Associated, and Fine Fare always had a row of vending machines by the entrance or exit, filled with trinkets. And this was the cash era—before debit cards, Apple Pay, or tapping to pay—so after my mom finished checking out, there was always some change left over. Before it got handed to the kid bagging groceries, I’d make my move:
“Mom, can I get a quarter?”
She almost never said yes, but the one time she did? Mind-blowing. I dropped the quarter in, turned the knob with my little hands, and the machine roared to life with a mechanical clunk. The capsule slid down the chute, and when I cracked it open—bam! A tiny army man.
That was my first and last real run with vending machine toys. Every time I asked after that, my mom shut it down. Even when I grew up and could afford to buy hundreds of those little capsules, I never did. Like a bird convinced the cage is home, I just stopped looking for joy in those machines.
Fast Forward to Tokyo
Present day—I’m in Tokyo. And everywhere I go, I see these Gachapon vending machines. At first, I just glance at them in passing, mildly curious. But here’s the thing: cash is still king in Japan. Sure, you can use IC cards, Suica, or even Apple Pay, but having physical yen on hand is just easier. Every night when I got back to my hotel, I’d find my pockets full of coins—¥500, ¥100, ¥50, and some ancient-looking ones that could easily be over two hundred years old.
Then I had an idea.
I decided to set aside my ¥100 and ¥500 coins specifically for Gachapon. For the first few days of my trip, I was more focused on urban hikes, ramen, and contemporary art. But by day three or four, I was ready.
I found myself in Kamakura, a relaxed seaside town in January. Strolling from the train station toward The Great Buddha, I was more open to new experiences. I had already done the high-energy Shibuya thing—this was a different pace.
My first Gachapon machine of the trip was for my niece, Angie, who loves Sonic the Hedgehog, foxes, and anything with a furry tail. I popped in the coins, turned the knob, and out came… a fluffy blue keychain.
Not bad. The quality was actually pretty impressive for a little capsule toy. And just like that, I was hooked.
The Gachapon Spiral
Still, I wasn’t about to go wild. I took an intuitive approach, letting myself be drawn to machines rather than aggressively seeking them out. After the blue Tails, I got:
- A blue bell
- A little good-luck cat
- A pair of Reebok sneakers (this one blew my mind)
- A light-up Care Bear
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And then… a bunch of weird stuff that I won’t be disclosing here because, well, let’s just say not all Gachapon are for kids. Some things don’t need to be indexed by search engines. But if you ask me over coffee, I’ll tell you.
The fun of it wasn’t just in collecting random objects—it was the story behind each one. That Reebok sneaker capsule? I got it from Tower Records. The lucky cat? That was a find from Beams. Every vending machine had its own little adventure attached.
Lessons Learned
If you’re heading to Japan, here’s what you need to know:
- Keep cash on you. Specifically, set aside ¥100 and ¥500 coins for Gachapon. It makes it easier to indulge when you spot something interesting.
- Gachapon is everywhere. Not just in arcades or entertainment centers—you’ll find them at the entrance of stores, in restaurants, and even inside department stores.
- They make excellent souvenirs. Unique, compact, and full of character, these are perfect gifts that come with a story.
- Expect the unexpected. Not all machines have cutesy or nostalgic items—some get real weird. Be prepared.
So when you’re in Japan, throw some coins in a machine and see what you get. Gachapon isn’t just for kids—it’s a small thrill, a tiny spike of joy, and a built-in plot device for better travel stories.
Thanks for walking with me.
