Tea on a Train

Tea on a train, in another country, served by a man speaking French—how could I not be charmed?

There’s a moment, sometimes, when you’re far enough from home that the ordinary becomes extraordinary again. A cup of tea isn’t just a cup of tea. It’s a performance, an offering, a spell cast in paper and steam. The man with the trolley didn’t ask, “Tea or coffee?” in the brusque way I’m used to. He asked it like it was an invitation. Like it mattered. His French was fluid and warm, the kind that flows rather than lands. Even his movements had a quiet grace, as if he had memorized the script of some old railway film and was determined to play his part just right.

I said yes, of course. Yes to the tea. Yes to the charm. Yes to the small magic of it all.

And there I was—an American, somewhere between Windsor and Toronto, sipping tea on a moving train like I was in a different novel than the one I’d woken up in. Out the window, the last glint of Lake St. Clair gave way to wheat fields rippling like applause. Inside, people chatted softly in French and English, their conversations layered like a bilingual lullaby.

It’s not that Canada is so wildly different from the States. The landscapes rhyme, the faces echo, the infrastructure hums in familiar tones. But it’s the subtle notes that shift the chord: the language, the cadence, the quiet courtesy in a stranger’s smile. There’s something softer here, or maybe just something slower. Enough space for things like charm to breathe.

And what is charm, really, if not the art of noticing? Noticing that tea tastes better when someone hands it to you with care. That trains feel more like time machines when you cross a border. That your grandfather’s voice still lingers somewhere in the clatter of the tracks.

Maybe that’s why this ride feels different. Not just because it’s a new route in a new country. But because for the first time in a long while, I’m letting myself be enchanted by the small things. A trolley. A French accent. A cup of tea. And the gentle, undeniable fact that I’m no longer where I was—but somewhere else entirely.

Isn’t that the whole point of travel?

Kinley's House Coffee & Tea

Shang Tea

Mudhouse

Enjoying a nice cup of lapsang souchong.  

Imperial Gunpowder Leaf Tea

Dear journal, 

Tonight, I sit with a cup of Taylor's Imperial Gunpowder Leaf Tea in my hands. The tightly rolled leaves have unfurled in the hot water, releasing their bold, smoky aroma. Each sip carries a hint of earthiness, robust yet calming. There's something grounding about it, as if the leaves themselves whisper of ancient roots and time-tested traditions.

As much as I love coffee — the jolt, the ritual, the warmth of a morning cup — if I had to choose one beverage to carry me through the rest of my life, I’d choose tea without hesitation. Coffee, for all its virtues, is a familiar landscape. Tea, on the other hand, feels like an endless journey — a winding road with unexpected turns and quiet discoveries. Each variety, from the delicate florals of jasmine to the malty strength of Assam, offers something new. Tea can be bracing or gentle, ceremonial or casual, meditative or invigorating.

Tonight’s cup reminds me that tea asks something of its drinker — patience. The wait as the leaves steep, the pause before the first sip, the time spent savoring rather than gulping. It’s a beverage that encourages stillness, a mindful retreat from the noise.

I often think about the way tea spans cultures — British breakfast rituals, Chinese tea ceremonies, Moroccan mint tea shared in friendship — yet at its core, it's the same humble leaf, steeped in water. That simplicity is part of its magic.

Tonight, as the warmth of this Imperial Gunpowder lingers, I find myself grateful for tea’s quiet presence in my life. No matter where I am — at my desk, on my porch with a pipe, or tucked beneath a blanket — tea offers me a moment to breathe. A reminder to slow down, to pay attention, to be present.

In that sense, tea isn’t just a drink — it’s an invitation. An invitation I gladly accept on a night like tonight. 

Always,

Dave 

Kaldi's Coffee Roasting Co

The cup and I are one

Dear journal, 

This morning, as I reached for my cup of tea, I reflected on the significance of ritual in shaping human experience. The tactile warmth of the ceramic, the gradual release of flavor from the tea leaves, and the rhythmic inhalation and exhalation of breath all coalesced into a meditative state. Tea, for me, transcends mere consumption; it is a deliberate act of presence, a structured moment of mindfulness within the flux of daily life. It is a way to root myself in the moment, a reminder that amidst the chaos of modern existence, there remains a space for quiet contemplation.

Today, I chose Constant Comment, a blend rich with childhood nostalgia and maternal association. Before I ever cultivated my own appreciation for tea, its spiced citrus fragrance pervaded our home, interwoven with the quiet moments my mother spent sipping in the evening cool. It was a subtle but significant presence, one that filled our home with warmth, comfort, and a sense of unspoken connection. What was once her ritual has become my own, seamlessly integrated into my contemplative practice. Rituals, as Thomas Merton observed, serve as anchors—binding us to memory, infusing our actions with meaning, and reinforcing our connection to the present. "Happiness is not a matter of intensity but of balance, order, rhythm, and harmony," Merton reminds us, encapsulating the essence of this practice.

Merton conceptualized monasticism as a state of heightened awareness, an orientation toward the divine embedded within the ordinary. His writings, along with the aphorisms of the Desert Fathers, resonate deeply in my zazen practice, informing the silence and introspection I seek. Each sip of tea from my cup—a cherished vessel obtained from the Abbey of Gethsemani—becomes an extension of this contemplative discipline. The act of drinking tea is thus elevated beyond habit; it serves as a tangible prompt for returning to breath, to self, and to the now. In these moments, I am reminded of the interconnectedness of body, mind, and spirit, how a simple act of stillness has the power to realign the self with a deeper sense of being.

In moments of stillness, Merton’s teachings surface within me: Relinquish distractions, silence the noise, release the compulsion to be elsewhere. Be still. Be fully present. As the steam rises and the mantra so hum synchronizes with my breath, I recognize a fundamental convergence in the philosophies of Zen and the Desert Fathers. Both traditions assert that deceleration is not mere passivity but an active engagement with consciousness. The Desert Fathers advised, "Go, sit in your cell, and your cell will teach you everything." To withdraw into quietude is not to evade life but to encounter its deeper strata. In our fast-paced world, where urgency often dictates action, this wisdom carries even greater weight. To slow down is to resist the compulsion toward productivity for its own sake and instead allow oneself the grace of being.

Tea, my mother’s gentle presence, Merton’s insights, and the regulated cadence of my breath all intersect in this simple yet profound practice. As I cradle my cup, another Merton passage comes to mind: "Every moment and every event of every man’s life on earth plants something in his soul." In this moment, I cultivate stillness, attentiveness, and the profound act of simply existing. And with each sip, I nourish that growth. As I drink, I feel time expanding, the sensation of warmth spreading through my body, and an awareness that this small act—this pause—holds within it the essence of something larger than myself. With every sip, I honor tradition, memory, and the quiet wisdom that comes with allowing life to unfold at its own pace. In this space, in this ritual, I am whole.

Always,

Dave

***

The cup and I are one

by Dave

The cup and I are one,

molded in clay,

shaped by fire,

Tea steeps,

ancient leaves fill the hollow space.

Sip and time slows.

My tongue tastes the bitter herb,

the sweetness of cinnamon.

My breath,

warmed by spice.

So...

Hum...

In...

Out...

We sit together,

the cup and I,

one in the space between.

ICE FOR TEA OR COFFEE

For years, I have endured the judgment of coffee purists, the incredulous looks of baristas, and the outright confusion of well-meaning friends who have tried—and failed—to understand my particular method of consuming coffee. I like it black. I like it hot. But not too hot. And so, I add ice.

Not an iced coffee. Not a cold brew. Not some fancy nitro-infused nonsense. Just a perfectly brewed cup of coffee, cooled ever so slightly by the strategic addition of a few ice cubes, rendering it immediately drinkable without the risk of third-degree burns to my tongue. It’s a simple request, and yet, society has made me feel like a heretic for it.

"Why not just wait for it to cool?" they ask.

"Why not order an iced coffee?" they scoff.

"That’s not how coffee is meant to be drunk," they declare, as if they alone hold the sacred knowledge of the One True Coffee Experience.

And so, I have lived my life as a misunderstood soul, quietly slipping ice cubes into my coffee when no one is looking, bracing myself for the inevitable interrogation should I be caught in the act. It has been a lonely road.

But today—today, dear reader—I was vindicated.

As I shuffled, still groggy, toward the hotel’s coffee station, expecting the usual setup of stale, lukewarm drip coffee and those tiny tubs of creamer no one actually likes, my eyes fell upon a silver beacon of hope. A humble ice bucket. But not just any ice bucket. This one carried a label that shook me to my core:

“ICE FOR TEA OR COFFEE.”

Not just tea. Not “for beverages.” Not “for your convenience.” For coffee.

I had never felt more seen in my entire life. Somewhere in this hotel, there was someone like me. A kindred spirit. A silent warrior who had, perhaps, suffered the same ridicule, the same raised eyebrows, the same accusatory, “Wait… what are you doing?” when they dared to cool their coffee with ice. Whoever they were—a hotel manager with taste, a rebellious breakfast attendant, or perhaps an enlightened traveler who left their mark on this place—I owed them my gratitude.

This morning, I poured my coffee, reached into that glorious ice bucket, and, for the first time in my life, added ice to my coffee without shame. There was no need to justify, no need to explain, no need to endure side-eye from strangers who believe coffee must be scalding to be enjoyed.

For once, the world and I were in perfect harmony.

I sipped my perfectly tempered coffee—not too hot, not too cold—and smiled. This, I thought, is what it must feel like to be truly understood. 

Champagne Oolong Tea