Three Teas

I was embarrassed by the silence. 

It was so quiet in this tearoom, sipping and blowing the hot water in my cup sounded thunderous. 

“Don’t worry about it,” assured Pam, my friend of 20-plus years. “Nobody cares.”  

I giggled, mildly distressed.  

We’d been to this place before, an unassuming low-slung brick building on the corner of a slow industrial street. About a year ago. We were searching for a place to host a middle-aged women’s group, hoping to be a source of refuge, some solitude and simultaneously, some community. We thought, rightly it seemed, that if we were longing and looking for this, there must be other midlife women who needed it, as well.

I was uncomfortable that first visit, too. With its small platform for ceremonial tea services, red and black lacquer decor, and a private room walled in with glass that seated 12 on cushions on the floor, it felt performative and overly concerned with itself. I mean, I love tea, but c’mon. 

We sat at a table with high-backed wooden chairs, a convenient outlet nearby keeping the shared kettles of water hot. As usual, I opted for something decaf and light. Pam went for dark and brewy.  

In between sips, we settled in for a warm and empathetic chat. Talking in hushed tones about all of the goings on in our lives, I randomly looked up from my tea and let out a tiny gasp. From behind, I spotted a woman who looked exactly like my new friend Angela, who Pam and I had just been discussing. I’d told her that I hadn’t heard back from Angela, and it was time for me to reach out again.  

Making friends at our age seemed a practice fraught with anxiety and misgivings. Yeah, we met people. But those people weren’t always our people. When I met Angela at a vineyard concert, there was a group of five other women there, all strangers. Talking with Angela sparked a tentative hope in my heart. She could be one of my people. A fellow tribeswoman looking for her clan.  

I had to be vulnerable enough to try and find out. Not a small task for a long-single mother who prided herself on going it alone. Mistaking trauma for a badge of strength. 

Without thinking, I stood up and tip toed over. 

“Angela?” I called, a little louder than I would’ve liked. She turned around. Slightly startled, her almond brown eyes lit up and a broad smile slowly spread across her face in recognition.  

“Hey!,” she responded. “What’re you doing here?” 

I pointed over to Pam and immediately invited her to join us.  

“I have some work to do first. Give me half an hour?” 

Pam and I continued our conversation and our tea while waiting for Angela. I bemoaned my recent job loss, she fretted about her teenager. We reminisced about the early days of planning our women’s group, which ended up falling through twice. Whether time or circumstance, it didn’t come together and we lamented the failure of what could’ve been. 

Having a real tribe, one with friends we could rely on and trust, was an unrequited longing we still yearned for. But, for whatever reason, we couldn’t seem to get over the disheartenment of our past defeat and rally to try again. 

When Angela came over, I marveled at the coincidence of us all being there at the same time. “This is my dream!” I exclaimed. “I love this!” 

“I didn’t expect you to be in my neck of the woods,” she teased. It’s true, it was a little out of the way for me. But I’d meet up with Pam anywhere, and I never minded driving when traffic wasn’t insane. 

After introducing the two of them, I was amazed by how easily our words flowed. Angela, for whatever reason, began chatting about the very topics Pam and I had been discussing over breakfast at a nearby cafe, and now over tea. 

Tea, centrally, was one of those topics. Angela told us about her neighbor, an owner of another tea place in town.  

“One day, he asked me if I had some time to learn about tea,” she recalled. “I said ‘sure’, expecting to spend half hour over there.” 

“But he walked me through this whole ceremony, telling me about each individual tea, its history, where it came from, and what it was used for by that culture. I spent like, over two hours over there,” she laughed. “It was cool, though. To see him so passionate about it. I like to see people really care about something in that way.” 

As much as I liked tea, I wasn’t obsessed with it the way Angela and Pam were. Learning the ins and outs of a certain varietal didn’t excite me. The extent of my elation for tea was when it tasted good. 

Now a trio, I was paying less attention to the volume of my voice and the unease I’d initially felt in this space. I focused on my friends and inwardly cheered that we’d found ourselves here together. It was like a mini holiday miracle. 

Our wide-ranging conversation about family, politics, the upcoming winter holidays and everything in between converged when we hit upon travel. 

“I’m going to Mexico in April,” Pam announced.  

“Wait, what? I am too,” I responded. “I booked it before I got let go from my job.” Nervous laughter. 

“Well, you’re not gonna believe this, but I was thinking about spending a month over there then,” Angela chimed in. 

We laughed, envisioning us all in the same place at the same time, in a different country. Then I remembered something. “Hey,” I turned to Angela. “I forgot. I bought a resort reservation for two because there was a deal. They wouldn’t let me buy a single. You should join me!” 

Angela’s eyes widened as her brain pieced this information together. “Hmm, yeah!” “Maybe, maybe. . .” she responded. 

I did a soft sell then let her think about it. “Well, just lemme know. It’d be fun.” 

Moving onto other topics, we chatted for another 40 minutes until Pam had to leave to pick up her son. We went outside and said our goodbyes. 

Climbing into my car, my feelings about that tearoom had changed. It was now a warm and inviting place, merely because the people -- my people -- within had changed it for me. 

We’d found what we’d been looking for.