Last night on the outskirts of the city I met Mr Kieu Van Lu. He's 82 years young and he and his family own a small, traditional tea shop; a minute, timeless oasis of calm and a window to a quieter, more graceful past nestled in an area of the city rapidly growing outwards and upwards and which resembles nothing of the old town. Inside, he and his daughter-in-law served young men who'd come to chat and play guitar. The walls are hung with calligraphy, poems about tea written by his artist son, and on a blackboard patrons have written verse in coloured chalk. Every day they serve different tea; you can't have Tuesday's tea on Wednesday, or Fridays tea on Monday. Come back next week.

I took some photos of him inside which I was pleased with and then I put my camera away and we sat outside and chatted over cups of green tea. I then got my camera back out and took some more informal shots which I was even happier with. Now I can imagine him sitting there, happy in tea and company, with a head full of poems, forever.


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