Roadside Tea Quotes

By the roadside were fresh springs and waterfalls, and when we stopped for a break and to drink some tea, the air was clean and fragrant with cedar and pine. We breathed in our lungs greedily.

Another little-known favorite of mine takes some forethought in the early summer. We've all seen ox-eye daisy (Chrysanthemum leucanthemum) in fields and on roadsides; maybe you even grow it in your garden. As long as you can properly identify it, and as long as you can pick some from a safe, pesticide-free area (without secreting it from your neighbor's garden, even if she does grow a ton), snag handfuls of blooms and dry them well before storing them in a clean, dry jar with a tight-fitting lid. When a stuffy nose comes along, make a mug of tea with a heaping teaspoon of dried blooms. In about 30 minutes or less, a stuffed nose will be clear, and it should stay that way effectively for 4 to 6 hours, same as any cold capsule -- without the side effects. This works best with swollen nasal passages or a drippy nose. Drink a cup of the tea up to 4 times a day.

Camille really wanted to draw her. Paulette's face evoked little blades of grass from the roadside, wild violets, forget-me-nots, buttercups. A soft face, open, gentle, luminous, fine like Japanese paper. The lines of sorrow disappeared behind the vapor rising from the tea, and gave way to a thousand little kindnesses at the corners of her eyes. Camille thought she was lovely. Paulette was thinking exactly the same thing. She was so graceful, this young thing, so calm and elegant in her vagabond's trappings. She wished it were spring so she could show her the garden, the quince branches in bloom and the scent of the seringa. No, this girl was not like other girls. An angel from heaven, who had to wear huge bricklayer's boots to stay down here among us.

I have heard Chhaiyya Chhaiyaa on a transistor, on phased out cellphones and ultramodern speakers an old school radio, in rickety buses, in roadside tea stalls, in hospital canteens, even in a police station ...

When tourism was connected to beautification, with wildflower trails, wildflower festivals, great gardens, we pretty much took the word beauty out of the sole province of the "ladies at a tea party" to the province of the business community.

Put Your Records On" Three little birds sat on my window. And they told me I don't need to worry. Summer came like cinnamon So sweet, Little girls double-dutch on the concrete. Maybe sometimes we've got it wrong, but it's alright The more things seem to change, the more they stay the same Oh, don't you hesitate. Girl, put your records on, tell me your favourite song You go ahead, let your hair down Sapphire and faded jeans, I hope you get your dreams, Just go ahead, let your hair down. You're gonna find yourself somewhere, somehow. Blue as the sky, sunburnt and lonely, Sipping tea in a bar by the roadside, (just relax, just relax) Don't you let those other boys fool you, Got to love that afro hair do. Maybe sometimes we feel afraid, but it's alright The more you stay the same, the more they seem to change. Don't you think it's strange? Girl, put your records on, tell me your favourite song You go ahead, let your hair down Sapphire and faded jeans, I hope you get your dreams, Just go ahead, let your hair down. You're gonna find yourself somewhere, somehow. 'Twas more than I could take, pity for pity's sake Some nights kept me awake, I thought that I was stronger When you gonna realise, that you don't even have to try any longer? Do what you want to. Girl, put your records on, tell me your favourite song You go ahead, let your hair down Sapphire and faded jeans, I hope you get your dreams, Just go ahead, let your hair down. Girl, put your records on, tell me your favourite song You go ahead, let your hair down Sapphire and faded jeans, I hope you get your dreams, Just go ahead, let your hair down. Oh, you're gonna find yourself somewhere, somehow

Shara met me at the airport in London, dressed in her old familiar blue woolen overcoat that I loved so much. She was bouncing like a little girl with excitement. Everest was nothing compared to seeing her. I was skinny, long-haired, and wearing some very suspect flowery Nepalese trousers. I short, I looked a mess, but I was so happy. I had been warned by Henry at base camp not to rush into anything “silly” when I saw Shara again. He had told me it was a classic mountaineers’ error to propose as soon as you get home. High altitude apparently clouds people’s good judgment, he had said. In the end, I waited twelve months. But during this time I knew that this was the girl I wanted to marry. We had so much fun together that year. I persuaded Shara, almost daily, to skip off work early from her publishing job (she needed little persuading, mind), and we would go on endless, fun adventures. I remember taking her roller-skating through a park in central London and going too fast down a hill. I ended up headfirst in the lake, fully clothed. She thought it funny. Another time, I lost a wheel while roller-skating down a steep busy London street. (Cursed skates!) I found myself screeching along at breakneck speed on only one skate. She thought that one scary. We drank tea, had afternoon snoozes, and drove around in “Dolly,” my old London black cab that I had bought for a song. Shara was the only girl I knew who would be willing to sit with me for hours on the motorway--broken down--waiting for roadside recovery to tow me to yet another garage to fix Dolly. Again. We were (are!) in love. I put a wooden board and mattress in the backseat so I could sleep in the taxi, and Charlie Mackesy painted funny cartoons inside. (Ironically, these are now the most valuable part of Dolly, which sits majestically outside our home.) Our boys love playing in Dolly nowadays. Shara says I should get rid of her, as the taxi is rusting away, but Dolly was the car that I will forever associate with our early days together. How could I send her to the scrapyard? In fact, this spring, we are going to paint Dolly in the colors of the rainbow, put decent seat belts in the backseat, and go on a road trip as a family. Heaven. We must never stop doing these sorts of things. They are what brought us together, and what will keep us having fun. Spontaneity has to be exercised every day, or we lose it. Shara, lovingly, rolls her eyes.

AWARE The great sigh of things. To be aware of aware (pronounced ah-WAH-ray) is to be able to name the previously ineffable sigh of impermanence, the whisper of life flitting by, of time itself, the realization of evanescence. Aware is the shortened version of the crucial Japanese phrase mono-no-aware, which suggested sensitivity or sadness during the Heian period, but with a hint of actually relishing the melancholy of it all. Originally, it was an interjection of surprise, as in the English “Oh!” The reference calls up bittersweet poetic feelings around sunset, long train journeys, looking out at the driving rain, birdsong, the falling of autumn leaves. A held-breath word, it points like a finger to the moon to suggest an unutterable moment, too deep for words to reach. If it can be captured at all, it is by haiku poetry, the brushstroke of calligraphy, the burbling water of the tea ceremony, the slow pull of the bow from the oe. The great 16th-century wandering poet Matsuo Basho caught the sense of aware in his haiku: “By the roadside grew / A rose of Sharon. / My horse / Has just eaten it.” A recent Western equivalent would be the soughing lyric of English poet Henry Shukman, who writes, “This is a day that decides by itself to be beautiful.