“We are going to experience a traditional Korean tea ceremony,” they said. “How hard could it be,” I thought, unsuspectingly. Little did I know, the ceremony demands qualities I lack: etiquette and poise.
As I entered the picturesque Osulloc Tea Museum overlooking Seokwang tea fields, I was overwhelmed by the building’s geometrically satisfying architecture — a marriage of ink-coloured enclosures with an occasional glass wall that allowed one to contemplate upon the greenery outside.
The building, one of the prime tourist destinations of Jeju island, screams tea from all sides, be it the soft scent of green tea that hangs in the air or the architecture of the Tea Stone (where the ‘austere’ ceremony was to take place) itself. Atop a table on the corridor leading to the Tea Stone, small glass bottles with different varieties of tea stood elegantly. I picked the first one — labelled ‘Rainy day meditation’ — and caught a whiff of its fragrance as I opened the tiny lid.
When the first showers hit the earth, a familiar fragrance of nostalgia hits you, doesn’t it? — that’s what it was. ‘Japanese Cherry Blossom’, on the other hand, smelled irresistibly sweet. About 20 different flavours, distinctive by their fragrance, stood perched on the intended table. Soon, the sniffing had to stop as we geared up to enter the Tea Stone: a glass enclosure, surrounded by crystal-clear glass walls and sleek-yet-traditional furniture made of stone and wood.
Step by step
We waited for the tea sommelier to direct us. She arrived, clad in a wrap dress, sporting a warm smile. Through the glass walls, on one side, you could see a wide green tea field, and on the other, Jeju’s Gotjawal Forest. Nature was hugging me.
I carefully followed the sommelier’s instructions: feeling the texture of the earthen cup and placing it in specific positions, specifically meant for the guest and the host. I was clumsily trying to figure out what goes where. Soon enough, tea leaves (woojeoncha leaves, collected before kogu, explained the sommelier later) and an accompaniment of green tea brownies were brought to us (not until you make the perfect tea, will you be able to touch the brownies, they joked as I rolled my eyes).
The next step involved us waiting for the water to cool down to the perfect temperature for tea. My restlessness was evident, as two minutes later, I poured the water hastily into the teapot. As it turned out, the water had to be poured slowly so that the clear sound of water falling into the pot could calm one down; it was supposed to be therapeutic. Amidst the unintentional clinks, I wasn’t surprised at myself for having absolutely no chill, whatsoever. For the rest in my group, though, this was serious business.
We waited for the tea to brew into a perfect concoction. Meanwhile, my friend (who had forgotten to put her tea leaves in) was waiting in vain. Seven minutes later, we opened the lid to the sweet aroma of Jeju’s famous green tea. It wasn’t long after I had my first sip.
My far-flung expectations crumbled. Too many tea leaves? Not very hot? Very little sugar? I couldn’t decide.
Anyway, it’s only safe to say I did not dare to share my cup of tea with anyone else.
(The writer was in South Korea at the invitation of Korea Foundation.)