A Proper Cup of Tea
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: An Airbnb in a small subdivision outside of a small town in the rural, eastern part of Jeju Island, South Korea. Hanging out in Nowheresville seemed like a good way to avoid the ‘rona, and this island has indeed had very few cases (19, to be precise; population 700,000), but being in a more rural area definitely has its drawbacks.
When we arrived Tuesday evening, I had exactly six tea bags in my purse (Twinings English Breakfast, in case you were wondering). My primary agenda for Wednesday, after I had used up three of those tea bags, was to buy more.
We went to three grocery stores. THERE WAS NO BLACK TEA. Barley tea, corn silk tea, bellflower tea, and every variation on the theme of green tea you can imagine, but no plain old black tea. Panic began to nibble at the edges of my equanimity, and I briefly wondered how much of a hassle it would be to fly back to Seoul and stock up.
Finally, late Wednesday afternoon, we managed to find a place that Google maps told me was called “Hong’s Mart”—the sign on the building indicated that it’s actually called “Dong 365” (thus the challenges of every tiny task in South Korea). Mr. Hong/Dong (or whatever his name is) earned my undying loyalty by having not one, but TWO brands of black tea.
For what it’s worth, an eight minute drive from our apartment takes us to a beautiful Starbucks, with a drive-through and everything. So it’s not exactly as if we’re on the back side of beyond. This just isn’t a black-tea-drinking culture, and my dependence on my morning cup(s) is . . . complicated. I remembered, during my determined search on Wednesday, the tea problems that plagued me back in February. What follows is the last thing I wrote in the days BC—Before Covid, when getting a proper cup of tea was pretty much the only problem on my mind.
A Proper Cup of Tea
It started in Nicaragua. Little Corn Island is an edenic spit of jungle in the Caribbean, with about five hundred permanent residents. No cars. No roads. Nothing the average American would call a store. There are a few backpackers who never moved on, a lot of standard-issue free-range dogs, and even more coconut trees. Everything else (including tourists, who are the entire economy) has to come from either Big Corn Island, or the mainland.
We checked into the only hotel on the island that has round-the-clock electricity, and settled in for a two-week stay in paradise.
But at breakfast the first morning, I discovered that the hotel had no black tea.
I had difficulty even wrapping my brain around this. In five years of hotels, I’ve never, not once, been unable to get a cup of tea. The Victorians screwed up a lot of things in the world, but I thank them daily for spreading the Camellia sinensis habit around the world.
My morning cup of tea (or three) is my backstop. Once I’ve had that, I can tolerate everything else in my world being upside down or unpredictable. Can’t flush the toilet paper? Fine, I’ll pile it up in the rubbish bin. Lizards on the ceiling? No problem. Cricket under my pillow? I’ll just scoop him up and put him outside. My skin’s beginning to smell like mildew? This too shall pass.
I’ll cover my head, or take off my shoes, or hold your baby, or pose for pictures, or help you practice English. Whatever—I’m flexible.
BUT ONLY AFTER I’VE HAD MY TEA.
The hotel was wonderful—they actually had an employee pick up some tea in Managua (the capital) and bring it for me—that’s a flight and two boat rides, for the record. It was literally the best hotel service we’ve ever had, anywhere. They earned every star in that TripAdvisor review.
But then we got to El Salvador, and the wheels really came off the wagon. There was no tea to be had. Mercifully, I had grabbed some Lipton during our layover in Managua (mama didn’t raise no dummy) but now there was a new problem: no hot water. The hotel had a small coffee area in the lobby, with 2 perpetually-ready coffee pots that no one ever used, but no hot water. Also, no milk, because the owner’s sister is vegan. (No refrigeration either, but at this point, I guess that’s just splitting hairs.) There was no way to make myself a cup of tea. The restaurant served me chamomile the first day and wanted to argue over whether it was the te negro I had ordered. Then they charged me anyway.
In Guatemala, there were tea bags, but the water was tepid. Not like oh, it cooled off on the way to the table. More like, you didn’t want that hot, did you?
I coped, but barely. Lee pointed out very helpfully (insert sarcasm) that maybe I have a caffeine problem—this from the man who will just keep drinking the coffee as long as someone will pour it.
I am addicted to my morning cup of tea, and maybe the caffeine is part of it, but I don’t think it’s the entire explanation. If it were, a cup of coffee would suffice. But it won’t. I like good coffee, and I’m happy to have an artfully prepared hipster cappuccino or mocha a little later in the morning, but not first thing—it’s too strong, before I’ve gotten my feet under me and my eyes propped open. My day doesn’t fit right or work right if I don’t get to sit for an hour, sipping. Days when we have early flights make me super cranky, because I’m pretty much out of sorts before I’ve even gotten started. Princess is fussy.
Is it worse because it’s a caffeine issue? Is it because it’s first thing in the morning? How much are those two things combined? How much of your hot morning beverage is about the ritual, however you make it happen? Many, if not most, of us are running on auto-pilot when we get up in the morning: alarm-shower-kids-lunches-carpool-coffee-keys.
I gave up that predictability (I’m not complaining—I did it willingly), except in this one moment of the day.
On some uncomfortable level, it feels like I’m rejecting the local culture—the countries of Central America are, after all, justifiably proud of their coffee farms. Maybe that little voice in my head that says I’m being a jerk is on to something. Maybe I am, ultimately, unwilling to wade fully into the river of unfamiliarity that rushes around me. Breakfast is the branch I’m hanging on to, the branch that keeps me close to familiar shores. I am unwilling to let go, just like I am unwilling to eat soup for breakfast, or salad or fish or cold cuts or instant noodles. I’d like to be the kind of person who enthusiastically embraces everything the world serves up, but until I magically become that person, all challenging meals and activities will have to wait till after I’ve had my tea.
Take care,
Lisa
P.S. Thanks for reading, and feel free to share. If you have feedback, I’d love to hear it. And if someone forwarded this to you, thank them for me, and go to https://bookwoman.com/ to subscribe.