It’s a late summer night. Monday, day after the weekend. I should go to sleep, but I cannot. So I’m just sitting, drinking tea and listening to Bonobo. The windows are wide open, the chill of night slowly drives the fiery sun out of the room.
On table steam arose from the cup of tea. It’s my favorite – four years old Yi Wu pu-erh, one that just left the ferocity of youth, one that started to ascend the devious road to maturity. Born from mountains of Yi Wu under skilled hands of tea crafters.
I know that this tea is hand made – just today I found a long black hair in it. I quickly disposed it, before my girlfriend starts to ask hard-to-answer questions.
This is one of the first beengs I bought from Guang long, long ago in January of 2007. That is past long gone, the ancient time before the pu-erh bubble exploded. And this is the first whole beeng I drunk and shared, except of last small chunk.
The seventh infusion does not loose it’s strength nor taste. The rafined sweetness of Yi Wu shows promises of what it would become if I hadn’t drunk it. If I could just wait another fifteen years. But it’s hard to resist.
Last chips of formerly half kilogram beeng are observing me from wrapper. It’s a farewell to a good friend, farewell that leaves memories of beautiful times.