Page 54 of Taipei Story

“Just like, for the warmth.” We both copied Master Luo, rubbing the cups vigorously between our palms.

“But it’s so hot out.”

It was true; I would never have thought my hands needed warming up until I had an empty, fragrant teapot before me. “I think there’s medicinal benefits.”

“Eyeballs too.” Master Luo rubbed his cup over his face.

“Eyes too,” I told the twin.

“Why did we have to flip the cups?” asked the twin.

Master Luo had given some explanation, but I hadn’t quite followed.

“Oxidization,” I said, and the twin nodded, like this made perfect sense. “The tea has to breathe.”

WHEN THE TASTING CONCLUDED, JACKIE TOLD US THE STORE WAS offering us a 10 percent discount on loose-leaf teas, just for us, because we’d been such lovely customers. I bought a pack of the honey-aroma leafhopper-bitten tea. Master Luo told me it was best on its sixth or seventh steep, when it turned the color of a certain wine pronounced xiáduōlǐ, which I thought might be a Sicilian wine until I realized he was saying “Chardonnay.” I made a mental note to investigate the color of Chardonnay.

“That was very impressive,” the Harvard mother said to me. “How did you get such good Chinese?”

I told her and her husband all about the program: the rigorous schedule, the many electives, the small class sizes, and the homework load.

“That’s fantastic,” said the father. He turned to his sons. “You should think about something like that next summer. Go on, ask her about the deadline.”

“I think Harvard has a summer school in Beijing,” said the taller twin.

“They do,” I said, “but Harvard’s program isn’t as good as ours. Ours is the best by a lot.”

The twins seemed not to believe me. They didn’t ask me how to apply.

OUR LAST STOP WAS AT THE PINGLIN TEA MUSEUM.

Jackie distributed our printed tickets as we stepped off the bus. He had visited this museum many times, so he was going to wait for us outside. We were to meet him at the drop-off point no later than five o’clock. We could not be late. The bus could stall in front for only so long, and we had to beat the evening traffic into the city. Jackie went down our group, making each of us verbally confirm: five o’clock. Then he waved goodbye and stepped back onto the bus.

I wandered half-heartedly into the exhibit hall. I was chiefly invested in finding a place to sit. I had drunk nine cups of tea in the last hour; I was dizzy from the caffeine, and I’d heard quite enough about the picking, drying, oxidizing, and rolling processes. I found a bench just past the entrance and tipped my head back against the wall. My fingers tingled.

A series of paintings hung on the wall across from me: a blown-up illustration of prokaryotes, a colony in a petri dish, and what I was certain was the Big Bang. The label below read: “THE ALCHEMY OF STEEPING / THE BIRTH OF CREATION.”

Now this was interesting. I stood up. The signs on the wall explained: Tea was made by steeping leaves in water. A simple concept, but this metaphor in fact held the secret to all life on earth. The universe was created through steeping. Organic matter was steeped in a primordial soup, and from this sprang life as we know it. Prokaryotes became people. Steeping was a genesis, a metamorphosis: Through steeping, the small became large, the concentrated became diffuse, the hard became soft, the dirty became clean, and the sick became cured. What a simple yet profound observation! I could think of many things that became better versions of themselves after being steeped in hot water: instant noodles, shiitake mushrooms, Magic Grow sea animals.

Farther back in the museum there was a table where you could sniff jars filled with tea leaves of different varieties, but this seemed like an afterthought. Whoever had curated this exhibit was clearly more excited by the cosmological significance of steeping. There were jars of probably-fake organs floating suspended in liquid. There was a plastic Japanese schoolgirl sitting atop a ramen cup. There was a life-size plastic exhibit of three capybaras floating happily in a bath. Two were sipping tea from cups, and all three had oranges on their heads. There was a life-size replica of E.T. I searched my memories of that film, but I still couldn’t figure out what E.T. had to do with the pleasure of steeping. I asked the museum docent, who told me that she wasn’t sure, that perhaps E.T. was there just for fun.

AT FIVE O’CLOCK, JACKIE, TRUE TO HIS WORD, WAS WAITING BY the door. The Singaporeans, the Philadelphians, and the attractive maybe-French couple were ready in the foyer, but most of the Harvard family was missing. Only the mother was present.

“What happened?” Jackie asked her, in English.

“Oh, they’re just downstairs looking for a bathroom,” said the mother. “They’ll be back up in a second.”

This was too much for Jackie’s English—apparently, he was fluent only when sticking to his script. “What?”

“They . . .” The mother tried switching to Chinese. But she didn’t have the words, and the more distressed she got, the more rudimentary her speech became. “One moment,” she said over and over. “Wait—can you just wait?”

But Jackie too was getting distressed. He told her, in Chinese, that the driver couldn’t keep stalling; they couldn’t block the driveway, other tourist vans had to get out. Where were they? How long would they be? The Harvard mother seemed to understand but couldn’t formulate a reply. “Everyone else has to get back to Taipei,” said Jackie; “it’s not fair to keep them waiting.” He swept his arm toward me and the Singaporean women, and we all stood stiff, unwilling props. I tried making a sympathetic face, but I did not want to intervene. The moment stretched, agonizing, and then at last the husband and sons ascended the stairs. The mother hurried them out toward the bus, demanding to know why they were late.

“What’s happened?” the husband kept asking. “What’s wrong?”

“Chill,” said one of the twins. “We’re not that late.” This was true—it was only five minutes past the meeting time. The driver did not seem to care; he just waved us onto the bus. But Jackie and the mother were acting like this was the worst thing that could have happened, like the whole tour had been ruined.

WE WERE ALL SUBDUED ON THE RIDE HOME. EVERYONE WAS TIRED, and everyone had to pee. We’d drunk nine steeps of oolong tea, after all. The physical pressure was painful—like a hot knife dug into my bladder. Jackie told us that traffic was heavy, that they had planned to make the drive in one straight shot, but there was a clamor of protests, and we pulled off the road toward a rest stop. When we got back on the highway, the traffic had thickened, and we sat stationary outside the city for nearly half an hour. We would not reach Taipei 101 until past seven, Jackie announced grimly. That was the best-case scenario; who knew how bad this traffic would get? He was very sorry, but we had to understand this was not his fault, and he hoped it would not influence our reviews.