Hanging plants. Natural light. Exposed brick. Floor pillows. Touting itself as “a place for connection, creation, and curiosity,” the teahouse was fully a vibe. With a mission of curating an experience, they weren’t just selling caffeinated and herbal beverages; they were providing a reprieve. Partaking in this haven required reservations and prepayment. Reprieves necessitate notice.

 

      I’d talked my workaholic neuroscientist friend into spending a leisurely Saturday afternoon there, suggesting we bring novels or journals. “It will be a daycation!” I pitched, insisting that we not sully our time in this sanctuary with shoptalk about the university, responding to Reviewer Number Two’s opaque critiques, or managing administrative tedium. We were approaching the midterm of our academic quarter, and between the firehose of work and the downfall of democracy, our collective cortisol levels were teetering into code red terrain.

 

      When I picked her up, she was holding her work tote, laptop peeking out between the handles. “No,” I barked, pointing accusingly at the computer. “We agreed, no screens.”

     

      “Only in the car?” she negotiated, insisting that she would work solely during the hour(ish) commute to L.A. “I just need to finish the rubrics for--”

 

      “Fine,” I huffily acquiesced, anxious that my strenuous effort to relax was already eroding.

 

      I pulled onto the highway; she pulled out her laptop.

 

      Locating the teahouse felt like a windup designed to make us earn our reserved, pre-paid wind-down. R&R was on the horizon; I just had to get us there. Multiple traffic jams and wrong turns later, I wedged my Prius into a parallel spot on a dense side street and we wandered through a graffitied brick alley between warehouses. We were trying to make sense of the unlabeled buildings when a woman exited through a side door. Mystery solved. She smiled knowingly, her stick-and-poke tattooed hands holding the door ajar for us. Following implicit protocol, we slipped off our shoes and were welcomed by a soft-spoken herbalist who detailed the brews on offer. With steaming mugs in hand, we settled into our cushiony nook, chit-chatting briefly with the woman adjacent to us. An art director donning chunky eyeglasses, she had carved out the afternoon to wrap up edits on a script that was headed into pre-production. Wishing her well on her work, I leaned into my pillows and pulled out my novel, respite ready.

 

      I was hardly a page in when two women, early 20s, entered the teahouse and launched into an elaborate sexy-boho-baby iPhone photoshoot. One wore a powder pink crop top and maxi skirt set. For every picture, she cast her cat eyelinered eyes vaguely outward, performing a pensive gaze into the middle distance — the Birth of Venus clad in Temu. The other wore knee- high socks and a mini skirt. She clutched a plushie stuffed animal, curtain bangs framing her flawless face, her eyes boring into the camera in come-hither direct address. It was like a popstar from the early aughts had been Frankensteined with a toddler posing for prop-laden Sears studio portraits.

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      I sipped my duck shit oolong, side-eyeing them over the rim of my handmade handleless mug. The oolong was termed duck shit, I’d just learned from the ethereal looking herbalist, because the farmer who developed this unique flavor profile wanted to protect his formula from being hijacked. He’d spread rumors that the leaves were fertilized by duck shit to keep his sacred recipe safe. And yet, clearly word had gotten out, because I was partaking of this brew in the corner of a converted warehouse in downtown Los Angeles, not the Guangdong Province.

 

      The women asked the art director to move so they could pretend to sit in her seat. They didn’t know she was trying to meet a deadline, nor did they care. They were interested in getting the best light, which the art director seemed to be wasting by editing her script.

 

      They stepped over my friend, the novel-reading neuroscientist, to get a better perspective (camera, not life). They didn’t know she had been strongarmed into a screen-free afternoon, nor did they care. They were focused on obtaining the most flattering angles, which could seemingly be achieved only by posing atop the exact pillows on which my friend was sitting.

 

      They ignored the herbalist’s explanation of the teahouse and teas. Her knowledge was irrelevant. They were incurious about the mission of the place and the history of its wares. The teahouse and its teas were not why they were here.

 

      As I watched the two women, I clocked an internal roulette wheel of emotions starting to cycle. Its first stop was annoyance at their solipsism: Who enters a tranquil room full of people reading, working, and quietly communing and turns it into a personal social media montage? They were the visual equivalent of bringing a bullhorn into a sound bath, all selfie but no self- awareness.

 

      Next the wheel arrived at frustration. Couldn’t they see that their behavior was disrespectful and grating to the rest of us? Read the room, ladies!

 

      The pair alternated between the role of model and photographer every few hundred pictures. I had to hand it to them — their friendship had a firm foundation in shared (dis)interests and reciprocity. Was I jealous? Not of the photoshoot, but of their follow-through. They were here to capture themselves in this space and managed to do just that, surroundings be damned, whereas I’d come here seeking a break and found myself closer to breaking.

 

      Searching the room for commiseration, I locked eyes with fellow teahouse patrons. We engaged in the non-verbal communication of strangers suddenly united by a vexing situation. Displeasure flickered across the herbalist’s otherwise serene face. The art director shook her head, unamused. My friend rolled her eyes. I understood a fraction of the farmer’s anxiety; our peaceful afternoon was also being hijacked. Was anyone going to say anything? Despite a collective irritation, I could sense that I was the closest to a kettle about to boil over. My side-eye was evolving into a head on glare. It was distinctly possible I might become the Larry David of the teahouse.

 

      The women continued their main character glamour shoot. I scowled harder, my emotional wheel clicking onward.

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      Some notches past frustration came indignation. Whatever number they were registering on the scale of self-centeredness I was matching with judgmental ire. Couldn’t these insta-a- holes just be present? I thought, having abandoned anything in the vicinity of a peaceful presence and soundly entrenched myself in the self-appointed role of smug adjudicator.

 

      Forty-five minutes and 1,000 pictures in, the herbalist made the executive decision that the photoshoot had run its course and approached the pair with a respectful request to cease and desist. The two women sulkily sat on the floor pillows, eyes glued to their phones, fingers flicking through filters. Within minutes they decided there was no reason to remain in the teahouse and flounced out. No duck shit ever grazed their glossy lips.

 

      The simmering in the room immediately dissipated. My internal wheel rolled to a stop, landing in final repose on heavy disappointment — for them and with myself. I felt a pang for these two individuals specifically and an ache for humanity at large. How were we all getting it so wrong?

 

      The farmer had named the tea “duck shit” as a red herring, but rather than steer people away its unusual nickname attracted attention. From across the globe and before her time, he’d Streisand-effected himself. He duck shat the bed.

 

      The teahouse aimed to cultivate a harmonious space but in doing so garnered online attention as a vibe on which wannabe influencers sought to capitalize. They had created a thirst trap, less for tea drinkers than for self-promoting content creators — arguably not the “connection, creation, and curiosity” they’d intended.

 

      Documenting an experience they weren’t actually having to garner ‘likes’ from the info- glutted void seemed like the bleakest way to spend one’s twenties. The women’s phones were a blackhole for their images, esteem, and attention; no amount of engagement would ever be enough. They had come to the teahouse, but they hadn’t touched their tea.

 

      Bullying my friend off her laptop so we could have one afternoon together that wasn’t weighed down by work was hardly a ringing endorsement for how to spend one’s forties either. My effort to control a day of respite was doomed from the start. You cannot relax by force.

 

      Ineffectual curators, the lot of us.

 

      I held my mug and ruminated. At least the twenty-somethings were giving Birth of Venus. My optics had more in common with The Scream. I hoped the art director had made some headway on her script. I watched her work, regretting my decision not to bring my own laptop. I had achieved neither restfulness nor productivity.

 

I took another sip of duck shit; my tea had gone cold.