Our reporter finds community at a century-old Chinese teahouse in Chengdu

In the darkness before dawn, Yang Xingping opens the spigot of a huge, hissing tank, sending steaming hot water gushing into a big white thermos with a cork stopper. Two by two, he hoists full thermoses into a waiting cart.

“I’ve been here since 4:30 in the morning!” Mr. Yang exclaims. “I fill thousands!”

An intriguing tip has led me very early to Heming Tea House, nestled in Chengdu’s lushly verdant People’s Park. A longtime resident of this balmy southwestern Chinese city told me that “old-timers” arrive before six, when tea costs three yuan, or 42 cents.

I imagined Chengdu’s version of the small-town coffee shop or diner, filled with regulars debating local affairs. An ideal spot for an observer. The open-air, century-old teahouse was a rarity, having survived decades of explosive building in China that has demolished many ancient urban mainstays. Along with the three-yuan tea, it seemed worth rising at five for. 

Heming provided all that – and, unexpectedly, much more.

A symphony of birdsong greets daybreak visitors entering the park en route to the teahouse. A lone cat crosses a stone path and darts into the underbrush. A man in a sleeveless undershirt strolls solo, his arms swinging loosely. From over a moat and under a tall gate, the heavy wooden teahouse appears with its black-tiled roof and upturned eaves, along with the sound of Mr. Yang’s clanging thermoses. 

“Find a seat!” he shouts, with an urgency that seems out of place in the nearly-empty teahouse. I pick out what appears to be a good table – one that fits neatly into a corner protruding over the lake that surrounds the building. 

Mr. Yang disappears, and returns moments later holding a small, bowl-like white cup containing a packet of jasmine tea leaves favored by Chengdu residents. He explains that the three-yuan tea normally comes with “restricted hours” – from 6:30-9:30 a.m., after which the penny-pinching tea drinkers must depart.

But “you come from afar,” he says, setting down a full thermos. “You can stay and drink it all day and into the night, if you like.” 

Not long afterward, a retired Chengdu worker with a buzz cut and plaid shirt arrives at a nearby table. He rinses his cup, tossing the water into the lake with a splash. After steeping his tea, he uses the lid to stir and cool it. “I come here whenever I have time,” he says, holding the lid to strain the leaves and sipping tea off the rim.

Following his example, I steep my tea, and wait. Birdsong draws my gaze upward to the forest-like canopy. A golden carp jumps in the water below my teahouse perch, creating ripples on the lake. I take a sip, and time slows down.

Little by little, more people arrive. At seven, a retired manager called Mr. Wang occupies his usual corner spot. “This is my custom. It’s the morning habit of Chengdu people,” he says, nodding at the men seated beside him. “These are all my friends.”

The sound of conversation rises. A peddler, Dai Da, sells newspapers – food for discussion. A villager from just outside Chengdu, Mr. Dai has served as a soldier, labored on the railways, and is proud, in his 80s, to remain a jack-of-all-trades.

Then the out-of-towners arrive. Suddenly, we’re all chatting – small talk giving way, in good time, to weighty topics of the world, life, and dreams deferred.

A university administrator from Shanghai bemoans the flight of foreigners from his city, both during and since the pandemic. “It’s a shame,” he sighs. “I’m so fond of the United States – I’m practically an American myself,” he says, voicing hopes for continued peace, as do many in Chengdu and across China.

From the adjacent table, a woman called Ms. Wu agrees. A shop owner from Wuhan, she is visiting with her daughter, who just finished China’s rigorous university entrance exams. Ms. Wu talks about how the country’s pandemic lockdowns and slowing economy have impacted people’s outlooks. 

“Before, people worked so hard and always wanted more – but they weren’t any happier, so what’s the point?” she says. “It’s difficult to find work and make money now, so the attitude changed from one of ‘struggle’ to a slower rhythm.”

Ms. Wu plans to go back to her childhood home in a rural village, grow flowers and vegetables, and care for her parents, who still farm. “Our neighbors also farm and we share, so we have everything we need,” she says.

Before I know it, hours have passed. Planning to merely observe, I’d been drawn in. People came to the tea house with their cares and left unburdened, no longer strangers. 

Then, across the patio I spot a woman holding the hand of a young girl in pigtails searching for a seat. Admittedly with a twinge of reluctance, I catch up to them and pass on the best seat in the house, made better by the giving.