I fill the spoon, light the stove, watch the blue flames as they leap up then calm back down, ready to prepare my hit, my delight, my patience, my joy, my solitude, my ecstasy.
My god damn cup of tea.
I don’t know when this addiction started. I used to be a coffee drinker. Every morning I would make myself an espresso with my stove top coffee maker, nuke some milk, froth it up and enjoy a lovely latte. But somewhere along the way a change happened and here I am on my third cup of tea for the morning and certainly not my last for the day.
Unfortunately, buying tea in Zagreb is a trying experience. It’s not that Croatians don’t drink tea. They drink piles of the stuff. The shelves are lined with box after box of tea. Chamomile tea, mint tea, raspberry tea, blueberry tea, rosehip tea. I don’t even know what a rosehip is! Everywhere you go there’s this ridiculous fruity tea!
I’m a builders girl. I like boring old regular tea like PG tips, Dilmah, Lipton, Tetleys or Bushells. Here in Zagreb, I have to buy my plain strong black tea in a specialty shop.
Well, there are worse things in the world I suppose. But we’re heading to London in March and I’m already making room in my backpack to bring back an enormous bag of crappy old teabags. Luxury!
