The apples tumbled out of her plastic shopping bag along with a number of other sundries. One escaped completely and disappeared under the luggage belt. Like all local travelers, and in spite of my Southern upbringing, I moved around her without offering any help and grabbed my own bags as they tumbled off of the X-Ray machine, lest I be trampled along with that poor apple, at the Jinan Airport in China. It was just another human traffic jam that passes for travel in this busy place.

I was coming from one of the most beautiful parts of China I have seen so far and had simultaneous feelings of elation and trepidation. I was almost euphoric as we left the factory where I had been working as the driver swayed this way and that through the curvy valley roads, following a small stream; which made its way through the low green mountains.

Not ten minutes after leaving the village I received a text from my travel app letting me know that my flight had been cancelled. Panicking over a lack of information about the situation and wondering what my next move would be I instinctively went to book another flight; not knowing exactly why the flight had been cancelled.

This was just another poignant reminder of the ying yang of life; in every good there is some bad and in every bad there is some good. Of course the day had started out far too promising to continue without some darkness penetrating my bright white scenario and once again the realities of travel pressed in on me like my current neighbor aboard a high speed train bound for Shanghai; surely too large to fit in this normal seat but what is a person to do but grin and bear it.

I had arranged my trip to spend the weekend in this agrarian village dotted with porcelain factories in Dabu, Guangdong thinking that I would need some extra time to travel there and out again, not knowing what the travel gods had in store for me. I had been here several times before over the years, and it always struck me how beautiful and lush the landscape was. Small family farms sprinkled the countryside with terraced plots of land effortlessly growing a variety of squashes, turnips, and unidentifiable greens. The small farmers carried buckets of water to their small crops with the care of handing a newborn from one grandparent to another. Towns and villages not more than wide places in the road with clustered houses punctuated the languid countryside as if dictated by feng shui to break the monotony. Seniors sitting on steps and rickety chairs were soaking in the sunshine while the children ran along the roadside oblivious to the seemingly careless lorry drivers. I was the only one with any concern as everyone else knew their place and had no plans to break routine because a nervous westerner happened to be passing by.

Having worked in the Showroom that day adding drawings to the ones previously sent I strolled into the sample department to see how the mold designer was making out. As much as I would like to think how clearly I draw, the final products are not always that understandable. I am left-handed after all with a tendency to doodle like an addled general practitioner bored with the notes he’s scribbling in my dossier on the examination table.

Motioning for me to sit at his makeshift tea table I perch myself awkwardly atop something that sways like a young tree in the wind and resembles a thin saw horse. The table is covered with years of porcelain bits and glaze splatters; my kind of table. To sit at a table like this with a master porcelain mold maker is not everyone’s cup of tea but for me it’s nirvana; even if I cannot understand anything being said. My hostess, the factory owner, translates his cordial compliment that I look younger than the last time that I came by some 4 years ago. I accept graciously and give a wry smile because compliments of any sort are few and far in between these days and even if it was tinged with sarcasm, it was loads of fun. The tea was excellent of course as we were sitting in the center of green tea heaven for this part of China, which I did not know prior to my arrival but was soon to find out.

Unbeknownst to me, my hostess had planned my every minute. My usual day is an early rise, breakfast, work, lunch, work, hotel, (no dinner) and sleep; next day repeat. This part of the trip would break that mold.

Lunches were prepared in a small building behind a larger one where the raw material was literally pounded into submission with ancient wooden mallets the size of large horses run by a system of wheels and pulleys that looked as ancient as the art of porcelain making itself.

From the dried fish to the fresh veggies; to perfectly cooked rice, noodles, and soup; I could not imagine why anyone would ever leave the factory to eat out. After lunch the cook asked me for my request for the next day, Saturday, which of course I had at the ready. In this part of China, Tofu fried in a wok with ground pork is not to be missed and the next day it did not disappoint.

Lunch went longer than expected, undoubtedly due to my over indulgence and with a large grin of approval from the cook, I was rushed out to the car. We were on a clock and had to get to the mountain before the light got away from us. Before heading to the mountain; the home of the best high mountain tea in China; however, we needed to make an important stop along the way; Uncle’s house.

Uncle was as quaint and unassuming as any other person on the street in this sleepy little town; each storefront a testament to the business that was life here; Tea. True, we were in a bit of a rush but there is always time for a quick break at the tea table, where of course Uncle was the undisputed commander in chief.

He lit a cigarette and gave a mischievous grin as he loaded the teapot with what he considered a moderate quality tea from his own trees. Uncle, as it turns out was the latest in a long line of descendants; growing, tending, picking, and selling over 100 hectares of the mountain’s finest Phoenix Oolong tea, so named for it’s original birthplace; Phoenix Mountain.

As he deftly poured the first round which is not for drinking but only to wash the leaves he flicked an ash, re-charged the pot with boiling water, and in a singular motion distributed tea to the tiny four cups waiting as anxiously as I was. I nervously brought the cup to my lips determined not to embarrass myself and spill this precious elixir. Not only is green tea considered healthy but more importantly its great fun to drink and for those in the business of tea it is quite precious if it hails from the highest point on the mountain. Uncle’s trees were located exactly in that prestigious elevation and after 10 or so cups of tea we were on our way with the commander in chief as co-pilot, shouting instructions to the driver, waving at friends, and frowning at competitors, as we weaved our way up the mountain.

Uncle’s oldest tree was in the vicinity of 500 years old and its yearly production was strictly protected and spoken for in its entirety by the who’s who of Beijing. The next oldest tree had a similar arrangement with a particular customer and was only a mere 300 years old. Trees this high on the mountain have only one crop a year, and each spring pickers from all over descend upon Uncle’s trees, and surrounding mountaintops to harvest the tender green leaves.

After a lengthy visit and salutations to these seniors of the tea tree clan we make our way back to the minivan. Uncle has decided that we have time and light enough to trek further up the mountain to a national park encompassing Sky Lake.

A visit to Sky Lake is considered a lucky event assuming one makes it to the top. In spite of some trepidation about my own stamina I begin with Uncle curiously bringing up the rear. Uncle as it turns out passed us and was first to arrive on top. The name says it all and in that beautiful afternoon I basked in the waning Chinese sun as I surveyed the surrounding mountains albeit lower than our own and felt for the first time in a long time; like I was on top of the world.

It was the end of a perfect day in China or anywhere as far as I was concerned but as usual Uncle had already moved along as he does, bounding a hundred meters ahead to the next destination and as I turned to look back to the lake I spied Uncle sitting proudly at a tiny metal tea table beckoning for us to join him. I have come to learn a lot from my short time on this earth; one is that in Switzerland there is always a glass of wine at the top of every peak and this day I could not have wished for anything more than yet another ten cups of local tea on that solitary peak, gazing bewitched into a glorious setting sun; even if Uncle did say the tea was only mediocre.