Eventually,
up in the mountains, we found some food and I bought a Mt. Ah Li post
card at the 7-11. We were warmed by the meal, but chilled by the
night when the restaurant owner learned that I sell tea in the
States. He was excited and really wanted to sell me some tea. He made
us some tea, and we were onto the farm. We tried his tea, because you
never know what you might find, but we were on our way to the source.
It was strange, because we could smell tea only for a bit. We drove
with the windows down trying to smell the tea. Wafts of high mountain
fog assaulted us as we rounded corners. I stuck my nose out the
window trying to smell the tea .“We've had it. It doesn't smell
like tea here. They aren't making tea.” That was a bad sign. It
wasn't raining, but there was no tea smell. “If they were making
tea here now, this whole place would smell like tea. No smell of tea
means that the tea hasn't been picked yet, so even if it is picked
tomorrow, it won't be ready until we are back home.”
So
it really seemed like we might not have any luck. Dark, cold, steep,
sharp—these are the backroad conditions. And I just wanted to smell
the tea. But all that I could get was the damp, fluffy mountain
air—that in its darkness, hid everything—even the smell.
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