An intriguing tip has led me to Heming Tea House in Chengdu, China, at dawn. A longtime resident told me that “old-timers” arrive before six, when tea costs 42 cents. I imagined Chengdu’s version of the small-town diner, filled with regulars debating local affairs – an ideal spot for an observer.

First, the locals trickled in, including a former railway laborer selling newspapers, fueling discussion. Then came the out-of-towners. Suddenly, we’re all chatting, small talk giving way, in time, to weightier topics.

A university administrator from Shanghai bemoans the flight of foreigners from his city. From the adjacent table, a shop owner from Wuhan agrees. She says the country’s pandemic lockdowns and slowing economy have impacted people’s outlooks on life. 

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

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

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.