Tales of lost homes and new horizons, brewed to perfection

Hidden in a hard-to-find alleyway, just down the road from the bustling Wudaokou subway station, is a tiny tea house. I'd seen the sign several times before, and suggested to a friend named Andrew that we swing in and check the place out.

We walked through the plastic curtain and entered the small room. A wrinkled old man was hunched over a small table set with clay teapots and a big, tea-pouring plate. His eyes were closed; he was soundly asleep.

Inside, the air was hot and smelled strongly of tea - the raw, pungent, earthy smell of high grade leaves. The room was sparse and clean. In one corner, a silent TV flashed American cartoons. In another was a small rocking chair. Behind the sleeping man was a bookshelf filled with round wheels of pu'er tea, small tea sets, and big tins of green tea. We tried to be quiet, but the man woke up and welcomed us into his home.