 |
|
The Teahouse
The cup is handleless, rather tall and slim, with a blue glazed
dragon curling around a pearl at the bottom. There's now a small
heap of tea leaves lying on the dragon, the outer edges slowly
swirling around with the hot water.
The hot water is provided by a frail old lady, shuffling around
with small feet that were probably bound in the years before Mao.
She makes sure that no cup stays empty for long and so one is
drinking endless amounts of tea without noticing.
The teahouse is one of the larger ones in Chengdu, three open
courtyards with curved roofs, small fountains and wooden partitions.
There are red lanterns dangling from the intricate woodwork of the
roof and beneath it are low tables and wooden benches, some with
upright backrests, a bit inconvenient but good enough for a couple
of hours.
There's a special, closed section to one side, where there are
cloths on the tables and the chairs are padded. Long-nosed tourists
are steered to that area to mingle with wealthy businessmen and their
attractive female companions, but apart from being boring the tea
there costs double or triple the price of the peasants section where
I'm sitting now.
When people walk in from the street they are visibly slowing down,
relaxing, leaving the hustle and bustle of Chinese street life
behind. They order their cup of tea from a small table in the dark
entrance hall where it is almost impossible to read the price tags
next to the bowls with brands of tea from all over China.
Then they walk through the rows of tables looking for a convenient
spot, a young girl, not more than 14 years old, following them with
their ordered cup on a tray.
Next to the entrance hall stands a sign in Chinese with an English
headline anouncing 'Sichuan OPRa PeRfoRmance'. There are also a
couple of photos depicting colorful masks and wild dancing scenes,
but I can't make out where this performance will take place.
People come here to discuss business or to meet with friends. They
read newspapers or books. Some just sit there and watch the world
go by, sipping at their tea from time to time.
A group of old men in blue, baggy Mao clothes is playing
Chinese Chess and Go in one corner. Most of them huddle around the
boards and watch every single move of the players, discussing the
game in low voices. It has all the attributes of a World
Championship in progress.
There's heavy rain setting in amidst rumbling thunder. Luckily my
bench is far enough under the roof but some of the guests develop a
here seldom witnessed speed to secure a dry spot.
It's still very hot and humid and there's steam rising after the
first drops hit the ground. The courtyard gets a soft, dreamlike
appearance, further heightened by the sound of the rain that blots
out the little street noise that made it into the teahouse.
A girl, almost a baby, is watching me intently over the backrest
of the next bench in front of me, enjoying her first chance to
study a foreigner out in the wild. Suddenly there's another head
bobbing up behind the backrest, supposedly her proud grandfather who
took his dressed-up grandchild on a stroll through town.
He's a bit surprised at the sight of me, but then he's giving me his
widest grin. I show him my camera and ask if I can take a picture of
the child. He holds her up even more so that she can stand on the
backrest and I take a picture of her cute face.
The grandfather is now prouder than ever and starts a conversation,
hitting the limits of my Chinese in mere seconds. But it's still one
of those joyful moments with both of us working to understand each
other, happy about every tiny success...
This travelogue is (c) by Thomas Sturm.
The author allows non-commercial publication of this text in electronic form,
as long as this paragraph is added to the end of the text.
For publication in any other form, please
write to: t_sturm@pacbell.net
|
|
|
|
|
|
