Indeed, 3 months of living in England and a trip to Scotland later, I came across the magic that is a perfect cup of tea. It seems that the British have their 6th sense dedicated to tea making. Every cup of tea I've been offered by a British national, be it Tetley's or Twinnings, has been a cup of magnificence.
But today, I took a sip of a blend from Whittards just as Isabelle Aubret's 'Ma plus belle histoire d'amour' begins to play on Spotify, and by God, je suis tombée amoreuse. The colour, strength, sweetness, temperature, everything was in working order.
This tea was so good I took a bath with it. Jealous?
I have a theory.
I have just gotten back from a 4-day stint in Edinburgh where I was interviewed, slipped on ice and hit a pole, was felt up by a poltergeist, froze in my sleep, froze in my sleep and took an ice cold shower in the men's shower room, did not get drunk, and missed the party of the year.
Case in point, Edinburgh is the most beautiful city I have ever visited. Suck it NYC.
My theory is that Edinburgh is so beautiful, it granted me the bit of Britishness that I really wanted.
Or I got so fucking cold the ghosts underneath the Auld Reekie granted me the bit of Britishness that I really needed.
Creepy poltergeist of Old Niddry, yes I'm looking at you.
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