A Tea Reader (9 page)

After Twenty-Two Years

BY
R
USSELL
H
IRES

I hadn't seen her in twenty-two years. She was my first girlfriend and, as we had been young and inexperienced, I ended up hurt. Now, after all these years, I was about to meet her, at a tearoom of all places.

We had talked about getting coffee, because that feels like the default place for getting together. Except that she doesn't drink coffee. That actually made me happy, because now I had a good excuse for taking her for tea instead. Interestingly, this was a new thing for her.

I've found that women don't know what to make of a guy who wants to go for tea. It's considered to be a “girly” thing and many of the tearooms do little to disabuse people of this notion. We went anyway.

Our meeting was set for a Friday at 1:30
P.M.
, the day after Christmas. The tearoom was packed. I was the only man there, except for the waiter. My friend called to tell me she was going to be late, which worked out perfectly because there was still a wait for a table. I browsed around the shop out front, enjoying the various items for sale: teapots, infusers, and some kitchen-type decorations. It was all so beautiful.

I kept one eye on the window as I browsed. And then I saw her. The store and restaurant is a converted house and because of its design, she had to park in the front and then walk around to the back. I watched and waited in anticipation. As she entered, she said, “I've driven by here a thousand times and never seen the place before.”

She looked about the same as I'd known her. She had a more mature look about her and she seemed more settled and sure of herself. I wasn't sure how to greet her: A hug? A kiss? A handshake? I went with a token hug, which worked. I couldn't believe that I was looking upon the face of a woman who had so deeply influenced me and my life.

We were shown to our table. We had previously discussed, through Facebook, some details of our lives. But now, it was time to do more, to say more. And we did. We talked, and shared things with each other. She'd been suspicious of me and my motives. Things hadn't ended well with us the first time, but now I was there, telling her that it didn't matter what had happened before, because here we were, laughing and talking about our lives, our children, and anything else we could think of.

I was growing impatient with the unresponsive service, so I excused myself to get the waiter's attention. He was still slow to arrive at our table, though. I had wanted for this experience to be perfect, and it wasn't. I felt very protective of her, wanting to do what I could to make it wonderful. I'm glad she was such good company. At the table next to us, a tea party was in progress. Even though we had been seated first, I watched in the background as the party was seated and served.

The owner brought menus, and apologized for the slow service. We asked about the different varieties of tea. My friend asked about a particular tea. The owner strongly recommended against it. We wondered to ourselves why it was on the menu if the owner didn't like it so much.

The waiter finally came and took our order. I ordered a black tea with cranberry; my tablemate ordered the green tea from which she'd been warned away. I got a sandwich and we both ordered the soup.

The sluggish service turned out to be a benefit, as it gave us the chance to really talk. The conversation was light and easy. We got our tea and our soup. The soup was hot! She laughed at me for almost burning my tongue, but it was okay, as it broke the tension a little. Eventually, I got my sandwich, too. After that, I think the staff forgot us.

We took advantage of our privacy, and the lack of interference from the staff, to look at each other through twenty-two years' worth of experiences, turning off the outside world as we chatted, increasingly involved in our own bubble. What had been happening in her life? What had been happening in mine? As we sipped tea, the world continued to slip away from us, our lives becoming more and more intertwined. This wasn't a simple reunion, not anymore.

We were still dealing with the pain of our past selves, trying to understand the transformations that we were seeing in each other. She was kind, understanding, easy going, and pleasingly feminine. I'd grown stronger, more mature, and better able to handle life's challenges. I'd been through so much. I found myself surprised by her warmth and openness. And she was beautiful. This was turning into something interesting.

At one point, I caught her looking at me with that look. She has a look. It says she's feeling something, deeply. Enjoying the conversation? I called her on it: “I know that look. I've seen it before. I know what it means.” She quickly changed her expression. I felt something stir in me.

I began to wonder what was really going on. I felt that pull, and I know she did, too.

But we weren't there yet. There was still too much mystery, too much hesitation about what we both wanted, what we were both thinking. After talking for two hours, it was time to go. But we didn't want to go. And yet there was mystery about whether we would continue our conversation.

We paid the check. I walked her to her car. We made no plans for seeing each other again. Our future was left undefined. Maybe I could have tea with her again? We'll have to see....

Three Cups of Tea for Peace

BY
K
IRSTEN
K
IRSTEN

One School at a Time

March 8, 2006 changed my life. I had the television tuned to ABC's Morning News when I heard Diane Sawyer mention something about tea before going to a commercial break. As a tea enthusiast, I prepared to listen. A few minutes later I saw her sitting with a big, tall man with a shy smile whom she introduced as humanitarian Greg Mortenson. The talk was not about tea at all but about building schools in Pakistan and Afghanistan, helping children get a basic education in an area of the world where education—especially for girls—is a curse word for the fundamentalists who harmfully influence their daily lives. Greg Mortenson's work is described in his book
Three Cups of Tea
that was released that day and which has now become a bestseller in countries all over the world.

So what has tea got to do with building schools in Central Asia? After getting the book, I soon found out. In mountainous regions that are covered by snow a significant part of the year, tea has a cultural importance—not only for its nutritional benefits, which are in high demand in this terrain, but also for the ritual that “three cups of tea” represents. When you are offered the first cup, you are a stranger; getting the second, you become a friend; and when you enjoy the third cup, you become family. For family, one is willing to do anything—even die. The tea they drink is called “
paiyu cha
”—green tea they cook in a tin pot with salt, baking soda, goat's milk, and a slice of their treasured “
mar
”—rancid yak butter.

In his book, Mortenson describes a mountain climbing expedition to K2 in the Karakoram Mountain Range during which he encountered the village of Korphe, Pakistan. He noticed a group of children gathered on a hill, writing with sticks in the sand. When he asked them what they were doing, they explained that they were in school. Greg resolved to raise money in the U.S. and return to build them a real school.

With unbelievable challenges, including selling all he owned and sleeping in his car, Greg managed to raise $15,000 and return to Korphe in 1995 where the first school was built. Seeing the impact this school had, Greg decided to make it his mission in life to build schools for these children in the Karakoram Range region. He has built many secular schools with his nonprofit organization, Central Asia Institute. The schools are built in the name of peace in the belief that with a balanced view, people have an alternative to the Taliban fundamentalist
madrasas
.

As I said earlier, March 8, 2006 changed my life. When I listened to Greg Mortenson talking passionately about his book and work, I knew I had to meet this man. Together with my local college we set a two-year goal to raise $35,000 to build a school in the name of Brookdale Community College. In January 2007, nearly a year into our challenge, our college advisor, a few students, alumni members and I drove from Lincroft, New Jersey to Philadelphia where we had learned that Greg Mortenson was the speaker at a business meeting. Seeing this tall, humble man in person was an incredible experience. After his speech, we lined up to have our books signed. (Of the 300 people present we were among the very few who had actually read the book and knew who he was.) When he saw us he stood up and said, “You are the Brookdale people.” He gave us a real bear hug and asked if he could come to our school to meet with us! Now we were in awe! This busy man, who spends half of his year in Central Asia and the rest of his time promoting his book, wanted to spend a day with us!

May 10,
2007 became the official “Greg Mortenson Day” in Monmouth County with resolutions from the County Freeholders, the board of trustees and the alumni association. Greg was interviewed by our college president live on “Brookdale Views,” our local TV station and was the guest of honor at a colloquium held that evening for a full house of professors, students, and the community.

As an inspirational feature between the day's interviews and meetings, I had volunteered to do a presentation on “The World of Tea,” relating the significance of the Central Asian ceremony of “three cups of tea” to other tea ceremonies in the world. After the presentation a smiling Greg came up to me and mentioned that he had never thought of tea in connection to his work! “Three Cups of Tea?”

We shared three cups of tea (Green Spice Chai) that afternoon and later in a quiet corner of the Student Life Center, after all the scheduled events were over. Greg had no intention of leaving us even though his driver had waited outside for hours. We shared such a connection between his ideals and what we could do to help him promote the cause. An important part of our fundraising was done that day, but our awareness campaign continued and has been an inspiration for many organizations, clubs, and individuals who are true supporters of Greg and his work. Through my company, Tea 4 U, we are dedicated to supporting Greg's schools through frequent fundraisers serving plenty of sets of “three cups of tea.” Our goal of raising $35,000 was reached in June 2008.

At the graduation ceremony for Brookdale Community College in May 2009 we were very proud to have this prominent friend in tea, Nobel Peace Prize nominee and recipient of a Brookdale Honorary Degree, on the program as our keynote speaker. Being a friend of Greg Mortenson, the most humble man I have ever met with the most significant cause—to promote peace in our world one school at a time—gives me the conviction that
anything is possible
if you do it from your heart and drink tea with it.

Asalaam Alaikum
—
Peace be with you.

A Chat over a Cup of Tea

BY
J
EHIE
L K
EELER
H
OYT

Excerpted from
The Romance of the Table
,
1872.
¹

“Conceive them sitting tete-a-tete,
Two cups—hot muffins on a plate—
With ‘Anna's Urn' to hold hot water;
The brazen vessel for a while
Had lectured in an easy song,
Like Abernethy—on the bile—
The scalded herb was getting strong;
All seemed as smooth as smooth could be,
To have a cozy cup of tea.”

—
Richard Harris Barham,
“
The Ingoldsby Legends”

I have had occasion to note the fact that the English (I include ourselves) differ from all the rest of the world in the customs of the table, as well as in what is on the table, and the method of cooking. The tea table is with us a special institution. The effect of tea upon the nerves is undoubted, and we meet at the tea table to talk under its influence as much as the Chinese meet to gabble in their heathen fashion, while under the delicious influence of opium. Without people dine at a very early hour, they do not assemble at the evening meal to be fed, but merely to drink the celestial fluid, and talk; and, where late dining is the rule, as it is in England, the tea table is spread immediately after the dinner—generally in the drawing-room. There are hot muffins and a bit of cake; but to pour tea is the business and to drink it the pastime.

I inhale the smoke of a prime Havana with delight, and the odor of a pure tea comes to me like incense; yet I neither smoke nor drink. Tea puts my nerves in motions like the telegraph wires in a gale, and I toss on a sleepless pillow, while my brain whirls and spins with ceaseless and not pleasurable anxiety. I think I should make a capital subject on whom to try the effects of new medicines, so quick does my system respond to every innovation; but I should require a larger remuneration to induce me to drink tea in large quantities than to take mineral poisons in small. This fact proves either that the systems of the race are differently constituted, or that we can, by habit and practice, become accustomed to almost anything. I hope tea is harmless, for people enjoy it so much, and I like to see them happy.

But, although Americans and English make a feature of the tea-table proper, they by no means equal other nations in the amount consumed, or in their devotion to the article itself.

Russia, next to China, stands at the head of tea-drinking nations; and Russia has her pick of the crop before any other nation is allowed to come in. Russians take a natural pride in the fact that their tea is brought across the Ural Mountains and the steppes of Tartary, and that it does not lose its flavor in transportation, as does that which foreigners carry across the salt water. And the tea of Russia is delicious. Its aroma comes to meet you in a fragrant cloud, as you enter the room where it is. The Russian Bear is hardly a symbol of the people of those luxurious climes, who drive the fastest horses in the world, who clothe themselves in the furs of princes, and who monopolize all the champagne of the Widow Cliquot. Of course, they drink the best tea in the world, and they drink their fill. Russia would have been the Paradise of Dr. Johnson, whose allowance was twelve cups, although in that country they do not serve you out tea by the cup, but bring you a teapot of generous capacity. In supping his tea, the Russian gourmand will sometimes put lumps of sugar in his mouth, and filter his tea through that saccharine medium.
Tchai,
as the Russians call it, is the staple drink to offer a stranger. In the restaurants and refreshment rooms, of course, it is to be had quicker than anything else, while in private houses it is a mark of politeness to offer the caller a cup of the beverage that “cheers, but not inebriates.” In an eating house, or exchange, called the
tratker,
an organ is the instrument which makes melody for the Russian while he is partaking of his beloved drink, and with the ability to call for tea
—
stock au tchai
—
the visitor may rest himself, and enjoy the organ as much as he pleases. The tea is drank from glass, and it requires some dexterity to handle a tumbler full of hot liquid, without being burned. The Russian does not like cold tea. He puts hot water into his glass, lets it stand a moment, then pours it out, and fills with tea. He weakens it, if too strong, and adds a slice of lemon. The pot of tea is to him an inspiration, and he knows well how to make it go as far as possible; and then, when it will possibly go no further, his next great luxury is taken up—the earthen pipe, with its long cherry stem.

I am almost inclined to think that there is some occult mystery hidden from us; some spiritual phenomenon which determines the natural likes and dislikes of mankind. Why should the Russians be tea drinkers above all others? They do not cultivate it; in fact, they could not.
²
It is brought by fatiguing journeys, and at great expense. Russia, too, is a cold and rather forlorn country, and one would suppose they would run into the use of spirits and drinks possessing much carbon—chocolate, for instance; but, while they do partake of all the luxuries of other nations, their passion is for tea. Now, if we go to the land of Hafiz and Abdallah,
³
we find that in Arabia they drink coffee, and in Persia, tea. In Spain they thirst for sugared water; in France, for heavy chocolate. The Frenchman sits for an hour lazily sipping his chocolate with a spoon, at a season of the year when it would seem the most improper beverage he could call for.

One thing, we can certainly vouch for—the love of tea drinkers for each other, when they are
at
the tea-table. It is asserted that scandal is the predominant intellectual entertainment on such occasions and that, if the tea imbibers love themselves, they do not love anybody else. I am not prepared to accept this as a truth; but, were it so, it would open a wide field for philosophical inquiry. The study of the relationship between what we drink and the development of our mental and moral nature would be worthy of a Dr. Porson.
⁴

Perhaps, as with other drinks, quantity has something to do with its action. People under the moderate influence of wine are full of fraternal kindness, and as happy as larks; beyond a certain quantity they grow quarrelsome, revengeful, and ready for any crime. I have seen people very happy at the tea-table, full of sparkling wit and ready repartee; but Mrs. Caudle, I believe, went very deep in her potations, and drank her tea very strong. I will not further recall that harrowing story. Let me bring up Dr. Johnson once more, and give an anecdote of his method of tea drinking:

Sir Joshua Reynolds reminded him that he had drank eleven cups. He replied: “Sir, I did not count your glasses of wine—why should you number my cups of tea? I should have released this lady from any further trouble, if it had not been for your remark; but you have reminded me that I want one of my dozen, and I must request Mrs. C. to round up my number. Madam, I must tell you, you have escaped much better than a certain lady did a while ago, upon whose patience I have intruded more than I have on yours; but the lady asked me for no other purpose than to make a zany of me, and set me gabbling to a set of people I knew nothing of. So, madam, I had my revenge, for I swallowed five and twenty cups of tea, and did not treat her to so many words.”

Can anyone decide what the effect of tea is from such an illustration?

But there is one thing quite certain: that there is hardly a more beautiful object to be seen than a tea-table well set out, with the surroundings of proper furniture, pictures and curtains. The damask cloth, the silver service, the fragile, ethereal china, ready for the celestial nectar; the biscuit, preserves, and all the varied adjuncts of a well arranged household, fill the heart with a glow of enthusiasm. We know that this meal, at least, comes under the particular care of the lady of the mansion and her daughter, if she is so blessed; that fairy white fingers have beaten the eggs and the sugar, and brought into harmonious combination the cake and the jelly; that it was an eye for beauty and order which brought the bread to the table so nicely cut, and that only a soul which could soar above the prose of life could have put the peaches and the plums into a shape worthy of a Longfellow's poetic muse. The tea-table, thus arranged,
is
a poem; and, could I—dared I—take but one little cup, I can almost fancy I should immortalize myself, and take my proper position among the literary deities of Mount Parnassus.

*****

“Oh! Mr. Williams,” exclaimed Florence, as that gentleman laid down the paper. “It is lucky for you that you are a married man. With such ideas you would find little favor with the ladies, I fear.”

“I dare say you are right,” rejoined that gentleman. “Temperance societies are easily formed, because the ladies have a horror of intemperance, but an anti-tea society would have up-hill work to perform.”

“But tea does not affect everyone unpleasantly,” said Dr. Lorton. “I have drank tea for forty years, and do not see but what I am as well off with it, as without it.”

“Possibly,” said Mr. Williams, “but that only proves the old adage, that what is one man's meat, is another man's poison. It is possibly true that those who are rendered nervous by tea drinking are the exceptions, and not the rule. What do you think, Dr. Sollinger?”

“I think,” replied the Doctor,
“
that many, yes, most people, become habituated to both food and drink, and escape the evil consequences; they do not know that the poison works so slow as to escape positive detection. I can hardly believe that strict temperance in all things will not give us a longer average of life than we have at present. People use tobacco without apparent injury; yet, once in a while, a man is cut off with cancer, or some other horrible disease, which may be directly traceable to that noxious plant.”

“There is a soothing effect about tea,” said Thomas, “which lulls the mind into a false security. When the brain is fevered and anxious, people run to some opiate, and tea may be better than either alcohol, tobacco, or opium.”

“We will agree, then, to consider it the least of many evils,” said Mr. Williams. “We can never eradicate a habit so firmly fixed; all we can do is in some measure to control it.”

“And tell what is a good and innocent substitute, if one can be found,” continued Florence.

This second reunion passed as did the first—with much pleasant conversation, but with no particular subject which would interest the reader. It seemed almost impossible, in that pleasant abode, and with so many beautiful surroundings, to settle down to the consideration of any recondite question in philosophy.

1
[Certain archaic spellings have been amended. Ed.]

2
Actually, Georgia, at that time part of the Russian Empire, was already growing tea and it became a significant tea growing region, at least for domestic use, by the 1800s.

3
“The land of Hafiz and Abdallah” refers to the Middle East.

4
Dr. Porson was an English classical scholar who lived from 1759–1808.