rom my first glimpse of the bright purple flyer with two gray kittens’ faces plastered over the front, I was intrigued. What on Earth was a Cambridge cat tour? I pictured a massive herd of cats prowling down Mass Ave and couldn’t help but giggle in the Lowell House library (I got a few dirty looks). Right then and there, I RSVP’d.

A few days later, I’m walking down a brick road toward Dana Park. I pass a duo sitting on a bench, one scrolling on their phone dressed in all black down to their combat boots and up to their cat ear headband and the other in a cyan t-shirt over a black long sleeve and, you guessed it, matching ears.

I keep my eyes peeled for a clowder of cats, but for the moment, it seems the cat parade might be exclusively humans with headbands.

Yet within ten minutes, the crowd swells to hundreds — people dressed in cat-themed apparel, from neon-colored dresses adorned with cat faces to t-shirts plastered with cat-themed puns. Among the throng, I’m relieved to see, are many, many pet cats.

In the center of the buzzing crowd, I spot Cambridge city officials — joining to commemorate the city’s first annual cat tour and “meowfest.” Mayor Sumbul Siddiqui dons a bright neon glittery vest, with a giant bow — dotted with gray, ginger, and calico cats — hanging around her neck. In one hand, she grips a large megaphone; in the other, a clipboard of the destinations for the imminent tour.

The event was organized by Siddiqui and co-produced by Rayna Jhaveri — a neighborhood cat enthusiast. The idea originally started as a cat-themed block party, but after hearing about a growing trend of cat parades, Jhaveri wanted to bring that pawsitive spirit to Cambridge.

“We have these kind of creative, whimsical ideas out there. The world needs more whimsy, and I’m happy to lead the charge on that as much as possible,” she says.

Growing up, I was a dog person. But somewhere in the process of my family adopting our two cats, I have slowly morphed into a cat person. Perhaps the fact that eight different photos of my cat rotate as my Apple watch’s clock face says it all. Yet, being surrounded by all of these self-identified cat people, I feel strangely out of place. I may be a cat person — but I am not cat crazy.

Before the tour begins, I meet Andrew, a Siamese cat riding in a stroller. His owners, who proudly describe themselves as D.I.N.K.s — dual income, no kids — tell me that Andrew enjoys walks, hikes, and kayaking with their family dog.

From the corner of my eye, I see a little girl pointing up. I realize she is spotting a tabby cat dressed in a tan sweater perched upon a man’s shoulder. Her owner takes her by the scruff, dangling the cat’s hind legs in the air before placing her on the grass. The cat sits patiently in the grass, leash on the ground behind her. She gives him an annoyed glance when he explains that he considers her his little dog, then she proceeds to ignore the little boy who attempts to pet her. I chuckle to myself — how cat-like.

Almost without warning, the parade begins. A large white inflatable fortune cat blesses the parade-goers at the starting line. What begins as a cat tour quickly turns into a stampede. Hundreds of people pour down the street, each person eager to catch a glimpse of the neighborhood cats.

I am initially self-conscious, walking alone amidst the crowd of people. But I soon find myself walking alongside a girl dressed in a white tank top and light pink jacket. I ask her what brought her to the cat parade, and she tells me about her cat that she has back home, an ocean away in Nanjing, China. Hesitantly, I switch to Mandarin, a language I speak at home but rarely find myself using at Harvard.

I ask her what brought her to Cambridge, and she tells me how she came to America for college, how incredibly hard it was leaving behind her family and friends, but ultimately, how she discovered her close group of friends.

Between oohing and ahhing at the different cats on the tour, the conversation evolves into how to find meaning in work, whether we can fathom having families in the near future (baby now, baby never?), and the cultural differences between our respective hometowns.

These are thoughts that I have only started to voice in English with a few of my close friends. However, speaking Mandarin — my parents’ language — makes the conversation more intimate. We talk and talk, and when I look down at my watch, I am shocked to see that over an hour has passed by.

By the time the parade ends and I arrive back at the park, the crowd morphs into long lines for free tacos at a cat-themed after-party, called “The Meowfest.” A 5 percent warning flashes across my phone screen, and without having to ask, my new friend offers me her phone to use.

As I prepare to leave, she takes my nearly-dead phone and plugs her number in. She suggests we get coffee.

I’m ashamed to admit how rarely I venture beyond the Harvard bubble, and how little effort I’ve made to proactively meet my fellow Cat-abridigians. I went to the parade hoping for a clowder of cats, but I found something more valuable: a neighbor.

— Magazine writer Anne Sun can be reached at [email protected].