“You are happy with this desk?” he asks. “Not too long checking?”
Just about right, I say.
He points to a tiny customer-service circle with a smile. I choose it over
not-so-happy buttons, over one that frowns. Once my selection is made, the
guard smiles, too. He is blushing beneath his cap as he motions me through.
I am in the city of Hangzhou, in Zhejiang province. About 190 kilometers
from Shanghai, it’s famous for its tea gardens and is one of the seven ancient
capitals of China. .
I am with Kevin, my local guide. We roar past glassy structures with
Disney-castle tops. If elves had headquarters they might look like this. “No
one work there,” says Kevin. “Each one have a garden for family growing. These
are not for factory. They homes.”
Hangzhou is jumping and wiggling with new wealth. Full of former tea farmers
used to green space, the area is sprouting apartments built for Beverly
Hillbillies, with gardens right in back.
Kevin pilots me around in a car with other tourists. Along a busy boulevard,
we pass a flickering sign: “CITY,” it blinks. “CITY . . . OF CARTOON.” When I
ask about it, Kevin shrugs. “New,” he says. He doesn’t know what it means.
Same goes for a floodlit store called Trendy Way. A mystery, as is the
multi-storey I Feel hotel. Kevin smacks his forehead apologetically. He could
be a tourist just like us.
But at lunchtime, we land at West Lake, a turquoise basin reflecting
lampposts around its shore. “Louwailou Restaurant,” says Kevin with a squint of
satisfaction. “History of 100 years.”
Local cuisine means fish: West Lake fish in sweet-and-sour sauce. West Lake
fish in vinegar. West Lake fish with no sauce at all. A flier says this: “You
have not really understood Hangzhou unless you have eaten shrimp and eel.”
No one wants to risk the eel, but we bite into shrimp fried with Longjing
tea leaves. Longjing or “Dragon Well” is one of China’s most delicate green
teas. Next comes a dish of mystery. Has it been mailed to us from the kitchen?
There is a wrapping that peels off. We taste.
“Beggar’s Chicken,” explains our waiter. It’s an entire bird baked inside a
ball of newspaper and mud. The chicken makes me sleepy, and tomorrow has an
early start.
We set off on a daybreak pilgrimage to Yongfu Temple to watch monks at
prayer.
When we arrive, the village of Fayun Nong is wrapped in blackness. We
stagger up the temple hill and it is not until an hour later, toward the end of
the monks’ measured chanting, the thumping of a resonant drum, that a thin chip
of dawn begins to show.
No one mentions our presence in the back of the hall. We lower ourselves
when they do, and rise on cue. There is a bang on a gong. On our way out, we
are invited to the temple breakfast. Tables are shared and so are bowls of nuts
and tofu. Cashews are in demand — everyone’s chopsticks stretch for them,
clashing like brittle swords.
There is one nut left. My chopsticks retreat. A monk captures the prize.
Just then, I hear a plink, plink, plink. Conciliatory nuts from other monks are
dropped on to my plate. I am surrounded by smiles.
Time for an excursion to the country. In Meijiawu tea village, I am
beginning to breathe. The air smells cleaner. Maybe it is all the Longjing tea
leaves that are dried here and poured into shallow baskets for display.
Back on Hangzhou’s Hefang Street, the Wangxingji Fan Store and Wanlong Ham
Store were noisily crowded. But, here in Meijiawu, sidewalks are quiet. Village
roosters peck in random patterns. Pavement is dusty. I stroll in tea fields at
the edge of town.
Tea plants, I decide, are tidy objects. Round and puffy like the tails of
poodles, they carpet the ground around Meijiawu as far as you can see. In the
distance, rise jagged hills that look like they were inked in by an artist, who
has started to erase his work just slightly, using dabs of fog.
The tender tips of tea branches make delicate Longjing tea. Kevin informs me
that a cup of hand-picked Longjing costs $73. Once they’re dried, the
fragile-looking leaves bring $1,000 per pound.
To taste it I head for Mrs. Pang’s Tea House, a wood-beamed cottage at Amanfayun
resort. Ian White, Amanfayun’s British manager, aims to offer an authentic
tea-drinking experience. “Mrs. Pang knows tea,” says White. “So she is in
charge.”
Examining me over horn-rimmed glasses, Pang begins her work. “You must wash
the tea,” she says through an interpreter. “And you must rinse the pot.”
Boiling water is poured. There is overflow: tides of tea, a cresting wave.
Mrs. Pang disappears inside a cloud of steam. Is this some teahouse magic?
There is a sudden scent of blossoms. Liquid — light as April — fills my cup. I
take a sip.
Mrs. Pang is watching. She is back now. All the steam has cleared.
I taste. It isn’t tea, exactly. Longjing is like a taste of something
growing. A blade of grass, a petal in a cup.
I think of the Disney-castle gardens in Hangzhou. The City of Cartoon is out
of mind.
My head is full of farmers who grow tea and don’t want to leave the land.
I smile at Mrs. Pang. She pours again.
At last, when it comes to family growing, I understand.
