As the title denotes, I am going to base this blog around a confession: Yes, I spent my previous semester in London. Yes, I really enjoyed myself and did my best to make a point of trying new things, but (here it is) before this past week I had never enjoyed one single cup of tea in England. It’s true. Blasphemy, I know.

First, it’s important to understand that I am from Texas, and while the British are very proud of their use of irony, understatement, and weather, in Texas we find our identity in a lot of things, but for our family one of those has always been in coffee. Strong, home-brewed, Folgers in your cup, American coffee. As Professor Hicks so aptly put it, “We Americans connect with our coffee—its robust, not weak like tea.” In connection to this, I think that it is quite possible that I read too many historical fiction books as an adolescent about the American Revolution and was turned off by the idea of snooty British Tea and its snooty little tax in the American past. It’s the only excuse I can come up with for having waited this long while the rest of the house has ordered tea at restaurants and sipped it during breaks. I stood by thinking of my Texas coffee, keeping a silent and probably unwarranted grudge. Here in London, we are not supplied with a true coffee maker which is just fine: I confined myself to hot chocolate (Texans naturally have nothing against chocolate) and stayed away from the hot tea.

I might also have been thinking, subconsciously, of my first encounter with tea in the UK during my first trip abroad to Scotland (which, if I am correct, is not England). There, I accompanied my friends to a little tea room in Glasgow and decided that I would be as Scottish as possible—I ordered the “Traditional Scottish Brew”. I took one sip of this concoction, which I can only imagine had been festering for a mighty long time in the back, quite possibly in a cauldron, and left it be. Afterwards, I never had tea in London. Not when I was sick. Not when I was cold. Not even with honey.

I don’t know what changed. I don’t know what prompted me to reach for a mug and a tea bag of English breakfast. To be honest, I didn’t quite know what to do with myself when I realized that the bag didn’t have a string attached to it. Even the new kids in the house laughed at my confusion. I watched as the water turned a warm glowing sort of brown, added sugar and milk and much to my amazement, I enjoyed every little sip down to the very last and even found myself going back for another cup.

So, to conclude. Tea: not so bad. I’ll admit, it’s weak, but admittedly friendly. Still, I must also confess that I will not be telling my grandfather about my temporary switch to tea while abroad. It is very possible he would be calling with worried tone saying, “I tell you what you need to do: you need to buy yourself a coffee maker,” and Lord knows I have better things to spend my money on.