An Ode to Cupán Tae
Before I had my first child, I was desperate to travel. It was a clear sighted bit of maturity out of younger me, the acknowledgment that I would never travel so carefree once I had children. The trouble was I had a firm departure window, after which I really had to get pregnant. Despite regular plans and regular discussions with friends and family, I ended up traveling alone. Rather than go to France or Germany or Sweden or any of the other places I’ve always wanted to visit, I went to Ireland.
In a way, The States is a novel born of being in Ireland in solitude. When I was in Dublin, my daily lunch was a loaf of fresh bread from a bakery and a hunk of cheese. I’d people watch from a park bench, looking like a person on a lunch break I suppose. I went to all the historical sites within walking distance of my hotel, I stayed as long as I wanted at each display, and didn’t have to wrangle any children or negotiate with any adults. At dinner, I went to cute little restaurants before the rush, got a table for one and read a book. It was heaven.
When I was in Galway, what had been intended as the real highlight of my trip, I felt unsteady. My grandmothers had told me stories of Galway. Nearly all of my family on both sides came from the countryside outside of the city. But the connection when there was not a comfort, but intimidating. Passersby asked me for directions multiple times a day. Someone who knew my grandmother stopped me on the street, offering to take me by boat to to the family village. People confused me for other people. For me, an Irish-American from a predominately Italian neighborhood in Brooklyn, it was strange to look correct.
During a walk near the quay I found an adorable and not very busy tea shop called Cupán Tae. The entry was resplendent with flowers, the inside cozy and feminine and delightful. I got a selection of sandwiches and a pot of tea. There were mostly elderly folks in the shop, I think because I had traveled during a strange time for tourists. It felt peaceful, calm, and so different from what I had expected that it helped reorient me.
The next day, after a visit to the Galway City Museum, I came back to Cupan Tae for another round.
A couple of years later, I took my husband while my mom watched our kids. Years after that, just before COVID, I took my eldest during a mini vacation before the school year. I bought packs of teas to send to my family, and it became a tradition for my mother, brothers, sister and I to have Cupan Tae at home throughout the year.
Like many businesses, Cupán Tae did not survive COVID. When I pull up the address on Google Maps, the image is from October 2022. There is a woman holding an umbrella, looking into the window, evidently reading the notice that says the shop is permanently closed. The shopfront is ghostly in that image, the hand-painted sign half torn away, the windows dark and the elaborate silk floral arch tired and dingy.
During a Christmas call, my siblings and I mourned the loss of their winter blends. The replacement I found is fine, but it pales in comparison. I wonder, of course – was the tea actually that good? Or was it knowing the place, the chairs and the china and the little sandwiches and the friendly staff? The days when our greatest care on vacation was waiting out in the sea mist cold for a table to open up? Moments like that make the memories, which connect who we are now to who we were once, before.
Will I ever go in a cozy, warm tea shop and not wonder about their air filtration? Will I ever look at delicate china and wonder about the cleanliness of the hands that carried it to me? Or tense at the coughs coming from a table across a small room? Maybe, someday. But I know I didn’t worry then. Those moments are gone, but they were bliss.
