I’m at a literature conference in Victoria, B. C., experiencing the fruits of colonialism. No, that’s not me and my friends. It’s an old tea mechanical puppet box from Murchie’s. But I’m in a lovely old hotel and a town that has been properly British Empired. Irish woolen stores, tea shops, Scottish bars, Indian curry buffets. If it’s colonial, they’ve got it.
I thought I’d give you an image of the real life of a professor drinking tea in Victoria.
Is this the tea she drinks? Out of a samovar? In a porcelain cup? Reclining on pillows and draped in chintz, soft classical music playing as she chooses a single delicacy from a silver platter?
It is not. She drinks a nice assam out of an Ikea mug with a plump currant scone with cream and jam, though, while she grades papers on a break from conferencing. Perfectly happy with plastic cups, paper napkin, stainless steel tray, $4.25. Because she can’t afford an afternoon tea that costs $60. Egads.
And that is the life of a professor drinking tea in Victoria, B.C.