Cha Lou Going (rough draft)

One of my discoveries around Beijing that other students now capitalize on was the 茶楼, cha lou, or tea house called Happy Time Coffee. Its hunter green bricks break the monotony of the shops along Xinjiekouwai Dajie. The windows are blocked off with bamboo-esque screens, and floral curtains. Zhengming, or Gavin, and I went there to sip tea and chat with other cha lou goers. We pushed the plastic flaps, signature of every restaurant in Beijing, aside. They were once clear, but the air quality has turned them brownish, so they hang down from the top of the doorway like a grass skirt. And just like a grass skirt, Zhengming and I were excited to push it aside and get in. Right at the entrance, there is a small Christmas tree, sporting some Chinese Christmas decorations such as lucky cats, paws raised as if to greet me when I entered. A hostess counter is to our left, but nobody is there. The hostess was dozing off in a worn, warm colored couch for this visit. The whole ambience in the cha lou is different from the busy streets of Beijing. The honking is drowned out, people aren’t in a hurry. Everyone just relaxes. Smoke hangs in the air like the smog outside, but it doesn’t have brutal rays of sun shining through it that make eyes water just looking at it. The lighting is dim and each booth has beads hanging at their entrance, giving off a faux privacy feel to them. A Chinese couple was “snuggling” together over in the corner booth; their tea wasn’t steaming anymore. “Fuwuyuanr!” Zhengming and I both said at the same time. The dozing hostess, stood up, yawned and asked, “Ji wei?” “Liang wei.” And then she walked us to the booth, holding aside the ruby red beads and let us sit down. The chairs are heavily cushioned, and the other side of the booth didn’t even have chairs. There was just a couch. Two Chinese high school students were studying across from us at a table. Their book’s say “GaoKao Preparation.” They looked nervous, putting their whole future into that one test. Some say that the Civil Service Exam that was abolished in 1905 evolved into the GaoKao. The GaoKao is the Chinese equivalent of the SAT, except it, more or less, decides your life. On the days of the exam, hospitals preemptively post ambulances outside of schools so that students who pass out from the stress are treated immediately. Because no one wants another Hong Xiu Quan. We paid our 18 Kuai and the fuwuyuan brought us the menu. A small square book, green and had pictures of tea that somehow made ordering tea one hundred times more exciting. I ordered the usual, mango green tea, Zhengming got wulong cha and some suan nai. I passed on the suan nai this time. Kidney stones aren’t exactly the most desirable outcome of the dish. The hostess came back with our complimentary snack bowls. One has pumpkin seeds, chestnuts and orange gummy slices. Not exactly the pretzels and peanuts and other chex mex foods back home, but it went surprisingly well with the tea. Another couple came in and grabbed the booth behind us. They whipped out a laptop and start watching the third “Mummy” movie. Our tea arrived, and we started a small conversation with our fuwuyuan. My cup was full of orange liquid, a mango fragrance erupted from the cup, but there were no signs that this was actually tea, so I ordered wulong tea , just like Zhengming, so I wouldn’t feel guilty for drinking my faux tea at the cha lou. His tea cup looked as if they dropped the whole tea plant in there; roots and leaves and stems floated, sank, mixed and steeped in his cup. He took a sip, and the leaves got stuck to his lips and hugged his teeth, giving him a hillbilly smile. I looked around for potential talking buddies, but everyone was preoccupied, so I enjoyed relaxing and took in my environment. The table was made of whicker, a glass top that has seen too many spills. Chinese good luck charms, hung over most of the booths, their red tassels hanging down from its red wooden diamond adorned with golden Chinese characters for some chengyu. An occasional crosswind through the building made the tips of the tassels dance like a willows branches from a slight breeze. Zhengming and I kept ordering new teas and sat there, blowing the steam away to fool ourselves into drinking more boiling tea. Eventually our tongues were so burnt that we lost all gustatory senses. This is when we tried to say our goodbyes but failed because we couldn’t understand each other through the temporary lisp of a burnt tongue. We spent an hour and a half there, simply sitting and sipping tea. No chatting with locals and cha lou goers this visit. But the nice thing about the cha lou is you don’t have to accomplish anything. You leave there feeling refreshed because you took the time to relax in a city that never seems to stop.