Last week, I visited a West Asheville teashop that will remain nameless for this post. Despite being an avid tea drinker (I got through 5-7 cups a day while working and spend grotesque amounts of money on chai lattes throughout the week), I typically don’t love a tea shop—there is something smug about the types of people that frequent tea shops, real oh-I-don’t-watch-tv energies that makes me homicidal. This particular tea shop was no exception.
I immediately spotted multiple white people with dreds and self-satisfied smirks. Two men were wearing flowy yoga pants, shoes that might as well not even been shoes, more than one cross-body satchel, and appeared to both be lecturing (enlightening?) two different groups of younger women. Too many white people sat cross-legged on the floor, two hands cupped wistfully around a steaming mug of some “exotic blend,” a practice they ostensibly learned during a “life-changing trip to Asia” (always Thailand, Vietnam, or Cambodia, somewhere “authentic,” never somewhere tech-forward like China or god forbid…Japan) that a specific type of Asheville hipster who hates tourists but works in fields tourism makes possible always has in their repertoire.
Everyone there had that smug oh-I-don’t-own-a-TV look on their face. Everyone but me and another woman were clearly out of our element (we’ll get to her).
I ordered a chai latte. “Do you want a sldjfksdsldk chai or sdlkfjsdkfs chai?” the employee operating the counter asked. I asked the difference between sldjfksdsldk and sdlkfjsdkfs (foreign-sounding words I couldn’t interpret since I’ve never been to a Thai full moon party devoid of any Thais yet learned everything about Thai culture there).
“One’s just a regular chai,” she said (“classic” is how I might’ve phrased this). “The other is spicy and special.” I went for the regular, took a number, and sat in a proper chair to wait…observe…and judge (I’m not going to argue that I’m not my own flavor of smug).
Here are some of the things I overheard and am not only judging but exploiting here on the pages of what could be considered a somewhat smug blog, which I should save for the next installment of Overheard on Haywood Road but do so much to fill in the aura of this tea shop that I can’t wait:
- “I just want to say ‘fuck it all,’ and be a seamstress.”
- “It feels like there’s a strength and vulnerability in every person, and I feel all of it.” This was said by one of the yoga-pant bedecked, cross-body bagged gentleman (this particular one had tie-dyed pants) to two women (one being a white woman with dreads) who were certifiably enraptured by his psychobabble. One of them later remarked, “You’re like, a psychedelic all-star,” to him, and I almost popped a blood vessel in my eye.
- “I have a blast every time I play harp” Editor’s note: It was just “harp,” not “the harp,” which I think is important context.
- “Every astrologer sees kids and success in my future.”
I’m sure I was looking around, incredulously, trying to process the parody of an alternate plane I’d found myself in when I locked eyes with the other women who didn’t belong at this particular tea shop.
She was trim, in expensive-looking leggings, a Hilton Head sweatshirt, and deliberately sleek haircut. She was waiting for someone—my initial guess was a first date—and had the manic, desperate energy of an animal that usually is in complete control but suddenly finds itself surrounded by people it has watched from afar but never had to interact with up close.
Our eyes locked, and we didn’t have to say a thing. We both knew that despite thinking that we were more sophisticated than drinking hot beverages and doing work at Starbucks, we might be Starbucks people. Neither of us has enough deep thigh tattoos or commitments to healing (no matter how faux or self-absorbed the calling), and have never had anyone complain we smell too strongly of patchouli to fit in at this particular tea shop. We are J Crew Factory people. We claim to dislike Whole Foods but regularly purchase their grab-and-go dinners (what! They’re convenient, we claim). We say we’re progressive but feel like sometimes “Asheville takes it too far,” and find comfort in Joe Biden. We’ve both said, “Well, we got here at the right time,” after arriving at a crowded restaurant just at the right time, probably in the past two weeks.
In my case, though—I can’t speak for her—faux intellectualism and holier-than-thou personas drive me insane. I detest carefully crafted personas that telegraph that the wearer doesn’t care what people think.
A svelte-looking, older gentleman wearing New Balance sneakers and an L.L. Bean sweatshirt came through the doors and greeted this woman. His presence calmed her down. This wasn’t a date. I didn’t do a ring check, but I would bet they were married. I overheard him tell her she’d got the wrong location. She was supposed to meet him at a bake shop down the street he didn’t realize closed at 6:00. He asked if she wanted to stay here instead. They left without ordering.
Right after they left, my “classic” chai latte was delivered. It was served in a ceramic mug I know in my bones is described by whoever its vendor is as “rustic.” It was delicious.
AshevilleExplorer 