Tea for Christmas

The Great Plotnik has now entered into his State of Pre-Christmas Zen. Yesterday, there was a few-hour pause in the rain, so he rode his Plotkicycle down to his old favorite haunts in Chinatown to buy tea for gifts. Since he had been to Ten Ren last, several new competitors had opened up along Grant Street, so Plotnik was happy to see the results: the Tea Ladies were friendly.

"Here, have taste. You like. Sit."

Plotnik liked.

"Here, I make 'nother kind. You taste."

Plotnik didn't like so much. But they were trying very hard, something they didn't used to do.

For many years Plottie has been buying dark Wu-Yi tea leaves, second-best grade, from the huge King Tea cans on the middle shelves towards the back, but only yesterday did an older woman explain to him that his dark Wu-Yi, at $96 a pound, is the same tea as the dark Oo-Long, at $35 a pound, except that the Wu-Yi has ginseng bark as well. This is really good tea and would be even better if Plotnik didn't prefer Arabic coffee from Samiramis.

Yes, Plotnik knows that his readers find Saint Plotniko's Chinatown to be touristy and too crowded, and yes, Plotnik understands that the real Chinatown moved long ago further West, out to the Avenues north of the Great Mall. But he loves riding his bike up Grant Street, heading through the lion gate, dodging the utility trucks and taxis trying to negotiate narrow streets snaked with double-parked cars and bicyclists juiced on dark Wu-Yi. He loves the smells of the moon buns in the cafes and the sounds of the old men playing 'Hark the Herald Angels' on strange bowed two string instruments as they crouch in sandals along Stockton Street in front of merchants with names like Good Luck Jade and Long Life Pharmacy (well, we would hope so).

He smiles when he thinks of Judy Wong, though that was a lifetime ago, and smiles even more when he remembers what her '56 black Thunderbird convertible did to these tiny streets, and then he shakes his head, chagrined to realize he remembers the car far more than he remembers the girl.

The Great Plotnik has come to realize that the things he loves best about cultures other than his own is that they are not comprehensible to him and never will be. Because he is a mystery guest, he can invent himself in any way he chooses. So we can easily observe the bicycle flying through the Stockton Street tunnel, rider's blue jacket and helmet bent forward and aching knees grunting, but we have to look somewhat closer to translate the thought balloon over his head: Peace. Zen. Christmas. Tea. Chinatown. Here. Have Taste. You Like.