Hangzhou West Lake and Longjing Tea

"Heaven above, Suzhou and Hangzhou below" — I'd heard this saying since I was a child, but it wasn't until I stood by the shores of West Lake that I realized the ancients weren't exaggerating.

I began my circuit of the lake at the Broken Bridge. The Broken Bridge isn't broken, but the legend of the White Snake and Xu Xian has made it the most famous bridge in all of China. Early in the morning, the bridge was still quiet. A thin mist hung over the lake, blurring the distant mountains and nearby waters into a hazy ink-wash painting.

I followed the Bai Causeway towards Solitary Hill, with weeping willows on both sides, occasionally brushed by morning joggers passing by. When I reached the Autumn Moon over the Calm Lake pavilion, the sun had just risen behind the Baochu Pagoda, spilling golden light across the lake surface. The whole world lit up.

A bus ride from West Lake to Longjing Village takes about forty minutes. Longjing Village is tucked at the foot of Lion Peak Mountain, the entire village embraced by tea plantations, the air carrying a faint fragrance of tea. I sat down at a tea farmer's home, and the lady of the house scalded a glass cup with hot water before adding a pinch of Longjing tea leaves. The moment the water hit, the flat, upright, elegant leaves unfurled in the water, releasing an intoxicating aroma — a fragrance of bean flowers mingled with a hint of orchid. The first sip was slightly bitter, but the return sweetness came swiftly, a crisp sweetness lingering in my throat for a long time. Sitting on the tea farmer's balcony, facing tier upon tier of green tea terraces, with the mist-shrouded Lion Peak Mountain in the distance, I slowly sipped through three infusions and felt my whole being slow down.

In the afternoon, I visited Hefang Street. This is Hangzhou's most famous historical street, with cobblestone paths flanked by pseudo-Ming-and-Qing-style buildings selling Longjing tea, West Lake lotus root starch, Zhang Xiaoquan scissors, Wang Xingji fans, and all manner of indescribable local snacks. I ordered a Beggar's Chicken — wrapped in lotus leaves and clay, and when cracked open, the chicken meat was so tender it fell right off the bone, with the fragrance of lotus leaf seeping into every fiber. Then I had a Dingsheng cake, a pink rice cake filled with sweet red bean paste — soft, slightly sweet, gone in just a few bites.

On the evening I left Hangzhou, I sat alone by the lake for a long time. After the daytime bustle had faded, West Lake revealed its truest self — quiet, gentle, unassuming. Perhaps this is the essence of Hangzhou: there's no need to put on a deliberate show. Beauty is simply there, naturally.