What a spectacular, sparkling, sunny spring day it is in Southeast Portland! There was a time, not so very long ago, when waking up to weather like this would mean just one thing: I would put a little extra air in my bike's tires, forget to grab a canteen of water, and crank my way up the long incline of Mt. Tabor to pay Anna Liu a visit at her shop.
I'd arrive overheated, but would usually pretty well catch my breath by the time I parked my bike. I'd make my way past the coin operated rides, the video games, and the extravagant marble sculptures. Sometimes (if I'd run out of calories as well as breath) I'd grab a bun or a wife cake at the little bakery next door. And then I'd enter the wonderful, darkened, dust-moted and tea-filled cocoon that was Serenity Art.
I would say, "Ni hao ma!" — one of the two or three bits of Cantonese that Anna had taught me to pronounce — and she would say, "Hi! Long time, no see!" And then she'd gesture towards the tea table. Neither of us speaks the other's language terribly well (or, in my case, at all), but we always had a nice time, and a nice conversation. And we always had great tea.
Since I can't do that today, I thought I'd at least imagine my way through the process, and tell you what I know about the shop's current situation.
However, if you've been up to the Fubonn Shopping Center in the last few weeks, you've seen that one of the brightest jewels in Portland's tea crown is missing. About a month ago, my friend Adrian (ABx) and I were out in the neighborhood of 82nd Street, scouting for Chinese markets and herb shops. Adrian had just procured what we later discovered to be quite a tasty cake of shu at a place on Powell, and we were thinking of stopping off at Serenity to share it with Anna, and do our regular tea shopping. But, when we arrived, there was a notice from the landlord on the door, and the windows had been papered over, but ineffectually enough that we could see our whole beloved shop had been totally dismantled.
Serenity had closed briefly about a month before, but not like this. That time, they'd opened up again within days. This time, it was almost unrecognizable in there.
When we discovered this extremely discouraging state of affairs, we made our subdued rounds in Fubonn, went back outside, and called up Anna (who is half of the couple who owns the shop). The language barrier made specificity a little difficult; however, she said that they are currently looking for a new location, but they're not yet sure where or when they'll re-open.
For those of you unfamiliar with Serenity Art, they were one of the few places in town were a person could buy aged puer. Their selection of loose-leaf shu extended back more than two decades, and, in my experience, their prices were much lower than the quality and age of their teas warranted. They also carried a selection of practical, inexpensive, gongfu cha essentials, as well as a variety of basic grades of your famous Chinese teas — Da Hong Pao, Dancong, a few grades of Bi Luo Chun, Hong Cha, Long Jing... All the usual suspects, and even a few not-so-usual.
And then there were the special treats — the "a little something from my private collection" items — which Anna would sometimes share. I'm really glad MarshalN got to visit the shop while it was still at its old location, and enjoy one of those extra-special items. Here's his account: http://www.marshaln.com/2012/01/new-year-in-portland/
We all have our deal-makers and deal-breakers with stores and eateries we visit, and it struck me in a new way how many different kinds of needs the shop served when one of my tea friends said, "Where am I going to buy those tiny, cheap ceramic cups now that Serenity's gone?!"
My original deal-maker with Serenity Art, long before I even knew what puer was, before I had any idea where tea would lead me, was the feeling I got when I visited the shop. They created a blend of colors, fragrances, textures, light, and shadow in that little space, which combined to spark something inside me. I really felt transported, in a wonderful way, when I visited them. Later, even once I'd become intimately familiar with all their nooks and crannies, barrels and jars, pots and gaiwans, herbs and art objects, the space between those walls still contained some element of magic — being there made me feel there were undiscovered, barely imagined recesses of my city, just waiting for me to explore. It was a really special gift to be given, and I think I will have succeeded in my own work if I can pass on some small part of that to people who visit me.
So, here's raising a cup to Serenity Art — may they follow the Phoenix, and emerge from these ashes strong and beautiful.
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