My goodbye video, my last video from Texas.

Thanks to everyone for sharing your stories and well-wishes about my recent shearing. And a special thanks to Monique for doing the deed – I certainly could not have done it myself. I’m sorry to those of you (Joanna) who intended to come but got lost trying to make it! A few thoughts on my new hairstyle, or lack thereof:
1. It’s cold. Since the day I was born my head has not been exposed to the elements, and apparently you lose a huge percentage of your body heat from your head. That said, it’s also somewhat refreshing.
2. None of my hats fit, which makes article 1 a little more inconvenient. Any hat that would fit over my dreads now dwarfs my bald head. Also, baseball caps are adjustable but they give me that “make-a-wish-foundation” chic.
3. It is much more convenient. It’s easier to swim, shower, sit, sleep, and pretty much everything else. I still reach for my hair, like a phantom limb, when I sit down or put on a jacket, preparing to brush it out of the way. My headbanging, however, has become much less dramatic
In other notes, some people say I look completely different and some say I look like I always had my head shaved. Overall I’ve gotten a pretty positive response to the change. it doesn’t freak me out to look in the mirror anymore. People say I look more Asian now. Everyone still wants to touch my head. Apparently, t-shirts stick to your head when you have no hair.
I’ll put it to a vote: grow it out or keep shaving it?

I stopped cutting my hair when I graduated from high school. All my life I’d been forced by private school dress codes to keep my hair above my collar, and I hated it. By the time I was a sophomore in college, my hair was down to my shoulders and my bangs constantly got in my eyes. For a while I had tiny silver bells braided into my hair that would jingle when I jogged. About six years ago, on a whim, I decided to start dreading them with the help of my then-girlfriend, who had dreads when she lived in the Caribbean.
I didn’t realize at the time that my locks would become so much a part of my identity, or at least my perceived identity. My friends frequently describe me as “Chinese guy with dreadlocks”. Strangers constantly come up and touch my hair, sometimes without even asking permission. They ask me how long I’ve been growing it, if I ever wash it, sometimes they ask if it’s real. The longer and nappier my dreads get the more black people trust me, and the less (some) white people trust me. I always get randomly searched at the airport, and every time I get pulled over I get asked if I have drugs. People on the street will either solicit me for drugs or try to sell them to me; whenever I hear someone say “Where’s the green bud at?” I instinctively turn around, knowing it’s me they’re talking to. I’ve had black people ask me if I was black, and Chinese people ask if I was Tibetan. People shout at me across the street because they like my locks.
My dreads have been tied in blue strips, had a steel watch buckle embedded in them, and a tiny piece of cordage I made from a dogsbane leaf is still tied onto the end of one of them. They have their own personalities; some of them split like a snake’s tongue, some have joined together to form a thick club of hair, and some have ridges or lobes like a four-leaf clover at the end. The tips are bleached from eight years of sun, I can coil them under my head like a pillow, wrap them around my neck like a scarf, tie them on top of my head so my hair stands up like the leaves of a pineapple. They’ve been to New Zealand, Japan, and most of the United States. Everywhere I go, they speak for me, making statements that I may or may not agree with, and people make assumptions about my politics, my lifestyle, my hygiene. I can swing them around at concerts and if I were to hit someone with them, it would definitely hurt. I can tie them together into a thick ponytail, using one dread to bind the others, and it sticks out at an angle like a feather in a hat.
This evening, at my going-away party, I’m going to cut them off and burn them. I’m going to shave them off myself with an ancient steel straight razor, the same one I use to shave my face. It’s at least 100 years old and made of fine Sheffield steel, which is no longer in production. I’m doing this for many reasons, the main one being that I am moving to China. The move represents a major life change for me, exiting the phase of my life in the United States, in Austin. Chinese people and foreigners who have been to China tell me that I won’t be taken seriously by the Chinese if I have dreadlocks. They’ll think of me as a miscreant or degenerate, at worst, or at least they will highlight my foreign-ness. I promised myself long ago that I would never cut my hair for a job, and I never did; I was a fishmonger, a sales associate, tea sommelier, canvasser, landscaper and a professional tutor with dreadlocks and it never held me back professionally. But it is important for me to be taken seriously in China, by the Chinese, and to me it is worth it to cut my hair. At the end of the day, it’s just hair, it will grow back and one day I’m sure I will lock it again.
I find long hair to be manly, like a beard is manly; boys are clean-shaven with short hair, men have long hair and beards. But long straight hair requires constant brushing and cleaning, which I don’t have the time or the patience for. My dreads are very low-maintenance, I wash them about once a week, and never have to comb them. I don’t have to carry a headband or any other hair accessories because I can tie them up in themselves.
Recently, they’ve gotten so long that I sit on them when I sit down, which is incredibly frustrating. So it feels like time; shaving my head represents a casting-off of my old life and the death of my old self. The weight of my hair and the weight of my past can’t come with me to China; I need to empty my bowl so that it can be filled with new experiences. I’m going to burn them, rather than keep them, because I don’t want to carry a bunch of useless hair around and I don’t want to be bound up in the material world. My hair, my memories, my life will all extinguish, just like everything in this universe is extinguished, and like the universe my life will continue on, ever-changing, renewing itself, different but still the same.

范素行

简历

个人信息

国籍: 美国公民

年龄: 26岁

性别: 男

使用语: 英语（ 母语 ）, 汉语, 日语

职业兴趣: 可持续发展, 有机农业, 水产养殖

电话号码: 831.345.4762

电子邮件地址: Fansohan@gmail.com

学术背景

中学: 斯特雷克 耶稣会 中学

德克萨斯州, 休斯敦 市

期间: 1998-2002

大学: 加利福尼亚大学 圣克鲁斯分校

加利福尼亚州, 圣克鲁斯 市

期间: 2002-2009

大学学位: 海洋生物学学士

毕业论文: 铜绿微囊藻生长对光照强度的反应

工作经验

专业指导教师

雇主: MERIT教育顾问公司

位置: 加利福尼亚州, 圣克鲁斯 市

电话号码: 831.462.5655

教的学科: 物理，化学，生物学

期间: 2005-2006

家庭教师

位置: 德克萨斯州, 奥斯汀市

教的学科: 日语, 演算, 化学 , 等

期间: 2006-2008

鱼贩

雇主: 质量海鲜市场

位置: 德克萨斯州, 奥斯汀市

电话号码: 512.452.3820

期间: 2007-2008

茶人

雇主: 玉叶茶馆

位置: 德克萨斯州, 奥斯汀市

电话号码: 512.687.0569

工作职责: 泡茶汤, 卖茶叶, 教功夫茶类

期间: 2008-2010

“Gong-Fu Cha” translates into English as “Kung Fu Tea,” and like kung fu it is a blanket term referring to a diverse variety of tea-related arts (originating) in China and Taiwan. These various local forms have differing customs, use different tea-brewing instruments, focus on brewing different kinds of tea, and may even disagree with each other on basic techniques and principles. However, all styles of gong-fu cha are unified in their emphasis on the development of personal skill, called “gong-fu”, through the discipline of brewing tea. Many in-depth articles have been written about the culture, history, and practice of gong-fu cha, so I will gloss over the minutiae in favor of discussing the more esoteric implications of this elegant pastime. For those completely uninitiated I will give a brief physical description of what one might experience at a generalized gong-fu cha service:

The Setting
1. The guests and host will usually be seated at a low table with short stools, either indoors or outdoors. Incense, cut or living flowers, music, and paintings or sculptures maybe present.
2. The main brewing vessel will be the focus of the table setting. It may either be a teapot or a bowl with a lid (gaiwan), is generally made of ceramic, and may be somewhat smaller than a standard Western teapot.
3. A small round tasting cup will be provided for each guest and the host. Secondary cylindrical cups, called smelling cups, may also be presented.
4. Accoutrements, including a secondary vessel of glass or ceramic, an assortment of wooden utensils in a brush pot, scoops, cloths, coasters, etc. may be arranged on and around special perforated tray that allows water to drain into it.
5. A fresh water source, a waste water basin, and a kettle for boiling water will be at hand. The kettle may either be electric or heated by charcoal.
The Process
1. All vessels will be simultaneously heated and cleansed with boiling water.
2. The dry tea leaves will be presented to the guests.
3. The tea leaves will be placed into the clean, hot vessel. Certain varieties of tea leaves may be washed by pouring boiling water over them and then immediately draining the vessel.
4. The leaves, now hot and possibly wet, will be presented again to the guests to smell.
5. Freshly-drawn water will be boiled and brought to the appropriate temperature, and poured either from the kettle or from a secondary vessel onto the leaves.
6. After a brief steeping, the tea will be decanted into the secondary vessel or directly into cups.
7. Once the tea is served, each guest may drink at his or her leisure. Special attention should be paid to the color, the taste, and especially the aroma of the tea during tasting.
8. Guests should return their cup to the table for a refill, and when they have had enough they may either turn their cup upside down or leave it filled. The guests may silently show their gratitude to the host for each consecutive round of tea by tapping their fingers on the table.
9. Several teas may be served in succession, with each tea being steeped multiple times.
10. At the conclusion of the tea service, the spent leaves may be displayed in a bowl or on a dish for the appreciation of the guests. All vessels should be cleansed with boiling water.

Skill, Not Ceremony
From its description the whole process may seem rather mundane, especially when compared to the much more elaborate Japanese tea ceremony, sado or chanoyu, that many Americans are familiar with. It is important to remember that gong-fu cha is a daily art, not a ceremony, and while there is a spiritual, ritualistic component to the tea service it is expressed through simplicity rather than symbolism. A brief comparison and contrast between the two tea arts follows in order to clarify the distinction between them:

Tea: Powder vs. Whole-leaf
Sado, the Japanese tea ceremony, is based on an ancient Song dynasty Chinese tea ritual practiced by Chan (Zen) Buddhist monks. It continues to use powdered green tea, as was the style in the Song dynasty. Gong-fu cha, in its current form, dates back to the Ming dynasty and uses whole-leaf tea varietals. These may be white, green, yellow, oolong, black, or pu-erh tea.

Technique: Whisking vs. Steeping
The powdered green tea used in the sado ceremony is called matcha. It is prepared by whisking it together with hot water to form a somewhat thick, emerald-green frothy beverage. In gong-fu cha the whole tea leaves are steeped in hot water and then the infusion is poured while the leaves remain in the vessel, leaving a clear, pure and fragrant infusion which may be green, yellow, gold, amber, red, or black in color, depending on the tea.

Vessels: Chawan vs. Gaiwan/Chahu
Matcha is whisked in a ceramic bowl, called a chawan (literally “tea bowl”), using a whisk of split bamboo called a chasen. Gong-fu cha uses a covered bowl (gaiwan) for white, green, and yellow teas, or a teapot (chahu) for oolongs, black teas, and pu-erh teas.

When whole-leaf tea was introduced in the Ming dynasty, the tea bowl needed to be reconfigured for steeping rather than blending. This was accomplished by the addition of a separate ceramic lid, which fit into the mouth of the bowl, thus creating the gaiwan (“lid bowl”). The lid serves the dual purpose of retaining heat and fragrance within the bowl, as well as being used as a strainer when drinking or pouring the tea. A saucer was later added, and the original bowl shape evolved into a somewhat smaller cup-shaped vessel. Gaiwan may also be known as chabei (teacup), zhong, san pao tai (three-piece assemblage, referring to the lid, bowl and saucer), or gaibei (lid cup). They are made of porcelain, Yixing clay (a special type of stoneware), and occasionally glass or stone such as jade.
The chahu, or teapot, was invented later and is based on the Chinese wine ewer. Since wine in China is served hot, a vessel with a tightly fitting lid and a spout was used since antiquity to conserve heat. When adapted to use for tea, this vessel not only provides a well-insulated environment that retains heat well but also strains the tea by way of the spout and projects a directed stream with more precision than a gaiwan. Gong-fu teapots are generally small, and may be made of various types of ceramic, stone, glass, and occasionally precious metals such as silver. Teapots made of unglazed Yixing clay are highly prized for their ability to enhance the flavor of tea.

Setting: Indoors vs. Outdoors
The sado tea ceremony takes place in a specialized tea room called a chashitsu. It is small, constructed of wood and raised off the ground in the Japanese fashion. One removes their shoes and enters on their knees through a small portal. The interior is dark, lit by a single window or skylight and by the charcoals from the brazier, and is decorated with a scroll, a flower arrangement, and scented with incense. The floor is lined with tatami, Japanese mats woven of rice straw, and the entire ceremony takes place on the floor.
Gong-fu cha may take place anywhere that is suitable for brewing tea, but generally somewhere clean, reasonably quiet, and well-lit. The ideal setting for gong-fu cha is either outdoors or under a small covered pavilion. Proper lighting allows for the full appreciation of the color of the tea leaves and infusion, as well as the aesthetic appeal of the steaming vessels. Gong-fu cha may be practiced at floor level but is usually served on a low table with chairs. Flowers, incense, and artwork may be present but are peripheral. The simplicity and versatility of gong-fu cha allows it to be practiced anywhere that clean, hot water can be procured, be it a narrow alley off a busy street, an elegantly-appointed tea room in a traditional Chinese garden, or on a mountain side near a spring.

Tone: Formal vs. Casual
I often find that when people are experiencing gong-fu cha for the first time, they tend to approach the service with some trepidation and meekness. They are hesitant to drink their tea until others have done so, they may be hesitant to ask questions, initiate conversation, or commit any other perceived faux-paus. I attribute this to the high formal tone of the sado tea ceremony, which most Americans have been exposed to through various representations in the media (Mickey Rooney is seen performing sado in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”).
During the tea ceremony, participants are silent, speaking only to offer ritualized formalities such as apologies and thanks. Hosts and guests may be dressed traditional kimono, seated in the formal seiza (kneeling) position, and will otherwise conduct themselves according to a strict tearoom etiquette established by tea masters of antiquity. There is an inherent hierarchy among guests, reflecting the hierarchal nature of Japanese society, and guests are served in order of their rank in this hierarchy.
Gong-fu cha, by contrast, is meant to be a social and casual event. Guests are served simultaneously, conversation is allowed to flow freely and topics are unrestricted. Guests may comment on the quality of the tea leaves, the aroma or color of the infusion, or the craftsmanship of the teaware, although they are not compelled to. To reduce the tiresome monotony of thanking the host for each cup of tea served, the verbal thanks is replaced with a tap on the table. Among connoisseurs, gong-fu cha services may approach some degree of formality with the inclusion of specialized utensils, smelling cups, flower arrangements, live music, incense, etc. but never to the same degree as sado.

Aim: Aesthetics and Ideals vs. Skill and Enjoyment
Sado is descended from a 10th-century Chinese Buddhist religious ceremony involving tea, which is and was an important sacrament in Chinese Buddhism. Although the overtly Buddhist component of the ceremony was removed by Sen Rikyu and other formative tea masters of Japan, the sanctimonious reverence, gravity, and attitudes of the ceremony persist and the religious ideals were replaced with social and aesthetic ones. These ideals, as described by Sen Rikyu, the founder of the tea ceremony, are wa, kei, sei, and jaku, meaning harmony, respect, purity, and tranquility respectively. These are embodied in the arts of flower arrangement and interior design, the etiquette of the ceremony, ritual cleansings preceding and throughout the ceremony, and the rarefied microcosm of the chashitsu itself. The tea, although the eponymous purpose of the ceremony (sado = way of tea), becomes just another player in the elegant ballet of water, teaware, flowers, incense, utensils, fans, and bowing that make up the Japanese tea ceremony.
By contrast, gong-fu cha is not descended from an overtly religious ceremony and developed more as an organic progression towards perfection in brewing tea, much in the same way that haute cuisine evolved from the basic techniques of cooking. The origins of the gong-fu cha ritual can be found in the Cha Jing, or Tea Classic, the first book in history to be written solely about tea. Authored by Lu Yu, a Tang dynasty scholar who was raised in a Chan monastery, the Cha Jing lays down the basic framework of Chinese tea culture by going into meticulous detail regarding the appropriate water, vessels, leaves, and preparation techniques required to brew the perfect bowl of tea. Although tea of Lu Yu’s time was fundamentally different in processing and preparation from modern brewed tea, the idea that tea culture is an art in its own right is at the heart of gong-fu cha’s ideals. While Japanese tea ceremony has stated ideals in the form of wa, kei, sei, and jaku, Chinese gong-fu cha has only one ideal, and that is tea itself. All of the techniques, etiquette, equipage, and rituals of gong-fu cha are aimed at producing the best-tasting, most fragrant cup of tea possible. In the case of the host, this means mindful practice in order to develop the skill required to bring out all the subtleties of fine tea. In the case of the guest, it means having a refined palette and discerning taste to appreciate the quality of the tea and the skill of the preparation. That is not to say that gong-fu cha is without ritual or spirituality; quite the contrary, but any esoteric ideals associated with gong-fu cha are for the participants to take or leave as they wish, and they extend from the appreciation of the tea itself.
To analogize tea with wine, the Western object of connoisseurship, attending a gong-fu cha tea service is like attending a wine-tasting: social, sophisticated, casual, and with a focus on the flavors and smells of the wine itself. Attending a Sado tea ceremony is more like attending Communion: solemn, sacred, with the wine itself elevated to a sacramental and symbolic purpose.

What is Gong-Fu?
The concept gong fu is difficult to translate; on the one hand it is a concept completely absent in modern Western culture, and on the other it is so deeply ingrained in Chinese society that it defies explanation even in Chinese. The matter is further complicated by the fact that “gong fu” is known to the Western world as “kung fu,” a blanket term for Chinese martial arts. Clearly this meaning is not applicable to the brewing of tea; this is because the Chinese meaning has no inherent implication of martial arts, but connotes a high degree of skill achieved through hard work. This definition is a fine starting point for the more in-depth discussion of gong-fu, and so we will define
Gong-fu – Personal skill acquired through mindful practice.

Using this definition, we leave behind the martial implications of gong-fu and are left with a concept that can be applied to any activity that requires, or cultivates, a degree of personal skill.
The inclusion of “mindful practice” as a necessary ingredient in developing gong-fu means that gong-fu cannot be taught through simple transmission. For example, a novice carpenter may have to strike a nail many times to drive it into a board, and it may be crooked. A master carpenter, who has developed good gong-fu in carpentry through years of experience, may be able to drive a nail with high precision using only a few well-placed strokes. A master carpenter can try to explain to his apprentice how to properly drive a nail, but in the end he can only offer advice, as the necessary skill to actually apply the theory can only be obtained through hands-on practice. This is the driving principle behind Chinese martial arts training, whereby a student may spend arduous hours holding a difficult stance, or repeat a single technique to the point of complete exhaustion, in order to develop gong-fu. Perhaps it is because gong-fu is so crucial a concept in the development of Chinese martial arts that the terms have become synonymous in the Western usage.
A parable I commonly use at my tea tastings to illustrate this concept is “Cutting Up An Ox,” a well-known story from Chuang-tzu, one of the foremost authors in philosophical Taoism. He is known in the West for dreaming he was a butterfly. I prefer the translation by Thomas Merton, a Trappist monk and scholar of Eastern philosophy, from his excellent collection “The Way of Chuang Tzu”:

Cutting Up An Ox

Prince Wen Hui’s cook
Was cutting up an ox.
Out went a hand,
Down went a shoulder,
He planted a foot,
He pressed with a knee
The ox fell apart
With a whisper,
The bright cleaver murmured
Like a gentle wind.
Rhythm! Timing!
Like a sacred dance,
Like “The Mulberry Grove”
Like ancient harmonies!

“Good work!” the Prince exclaimed,
“Your method is faultless!”
“Method?” said the cook
Laying aside his cleaver,
“What I follow is Tao
Beyond all methods!

“When I first began
To cut up oxen
I would see before me
The whole ox
All in one mass.
“After three years
I no longer saw this mass.
I saw the distinctions.

“But now, I see nothing
With the eye. My whole being
Apprehends.
My senses are idle. The spirit
Free to work without plan
Follows its own instinct
Guided by natural line,
By the secret opening,
The hidden space,
My cleaver finds its own way.
I cut through no joint, chop no bone.

“A great cook needs a new chopper
Once a year – he cuts.
A poor cook needs a new one
Every month – he hacks!

“I have used this same cleaver
Nineteen years.
It has cut up
A thousand oxen.
Its edge is as keen
As if newly sharpened.
“There are spaces in the joints;
The blade is thin and keen:
When this thinness
Finds that space
There is all the room you need!
It goes like a breeze!
Hence I have this cleaver
Nineteen years
As if newly sharpened!

“True, there are sometimes
Tough joints. I feel them coming,
I slow down, I watch closely,
Hold back, barely move the blade,
And whump! the part falls away
Landing like a clod of earth.

“Then I withdraw the blade,
I stand still
And let the joy of the work
Sink in.
I clean the blade
And put it away.”

Prince Wen Hui said,
“This is it! My cook has shown me
How I ought to live
My own life!”

Clearly the cook in this parable demonstrates a level of skill sufficient to earn the praise of royalty. When complimented on his technique, the cook clarifies that his skill is not the result of technique but of the Tao itself. This introduces a spiritual dimension to the concept of gong-fu: Perfected skill extends from the perfect nature of the universe.
It also implies that said skill cannot be conferred through mere instruction; as mentioned above, technique can be taught, but gong-fu must be earned. Through the mastery of technique, gong-fu is developed, until the point where the technique may be discarded in favor of the formless perfection of ultimate skill. The cook in the story clearly attributes his skill to his experience; he describes his growth in the art of butchery from a novice to a master. As a novice, he sees an ox as a single animal unit; as he progresses in skill he begins to see not the ox but the parts of the ox, a collection of cuts that wait for a skilled hand to free them from the rest of the carcass. As he achieves true mastery, he no longer sees the ox or the parts but rather perceives the spaces between the parts. He is so familiar with the natural openings in the ox’s anatomy that he can feel this negative space and follow its natural contours with his knife. When he encounters a knot or a tough joint, his blade flows around them like water flowing around stones and through cracks. Thus, his blade is spared the trauma of cutting bones, and remains sharp despite constant use.
The cook clearly establishes his status as a master by distinguishing himself from a “great cook.” Whereas the great cook is proficient enough to be considered “great”, he still has to replace his knife annually. Gong-fu transcends conventional competence and makes the difference between an expert and a virtuoso.
The parable concludes with the cook reveling in the satisfaction of his own skill. Much as one achieves a deep satisfaction by mastering a difficult musical composition, completing an essay, or running a race, even a mundane act, when executed with utmost skill, provides a thrilling sense of accomplishment. The “joy of the work”, for a master, is a supreme joy, and the pleasure of plying his craft is greater even than the value of the results it produces.
The last part of the parable, though made slightly banal by the inclusion of the dread exclamation point, serves to point out that the skill of cutting up an ox is just a metaphor for harmony with the Tao, just as crucial to the ruler of an empire as to a butcher.

Yellow tea is hard to find and harder to define.  It has fragrance without sweetness, crispness without grassiness, flavor without bitterness.  It is the most obscure of the tea categories found in the USA, mostly because of its rarity.  I am impressed when I find a teashop with even one variety of yellow tea.

To the best of my understanding, yellow tea is picked and allowed to sit in a moist, possibly sealed environment where it “yellows”.  This is a form of natural oxidation that does not involve roasting, so it is slower and mediated by the cell’s own catalytic machinery rather than heat.  I find celery to be a useful analogy.  Picture a raw celery stalk.  If you leave that celery stalk out in the air it will turn brown, dry out, and eventually spoil.  If you leave it in the fridge in a plastic bag, it will turn yellow – that’s yellow tea.  If you were to steam it for a few minutes it would turn bright green – that’s green tea.

This yellowing process reduces the grassy tang found in green tea, a flavor sometimes known as “pungency” in English and in Chinese as 甘 or “gan”.  The result is a light, fragrant tea with similarities to white or green tea but with a more muted flavor that hits the mouth further back on the tongue and throat.  The taste and smell are distinct but their nature is elusive; notes of hay, herbs, dry grass or fruit and occasional hints of pine or cedar combine to make a refreshing tea with a mellow character.  Sometimes the downy fragrance of white tea is apparent, especially in Mt. Jun Silver Needle, a celebrated yellow tea grown on a Taoist sacred volcano in the middle of lake Tongting.  Silver Needle is apparently one of the three treasures of Mt. Jun, the other two being a golden tortoise and a silver fish of some kind.

The teahouse I work at, Jade Leaves, is particularly well-endowed in having three different yellow teas:  Mt. Jun Silver Needle (Junshan Yinzhen), Mt. Huang Sparrow’s Tongue (Huangshan Queshe), and Mt. Huo Yellow Sprout (Huoshan Haoya).  The dry leaves are similar in appearance, to the point of being almost completely indistinguishable.  The flavors are likewise much more similar to each other than the different varieties of green or white tea; this may be an artifact of the low sampling size at hand.  They do vary, however, mostly in terms of sweetness and fragrance.  One of the more remarkable qualities of yellow tea is the color of the tea liquor which ranges from pale gold to a bright canary yellow.

As the greenness and pungency of the tea are reduced, the cooling qualities associated with green tea are also reduced.  For this reason yellow tea is a good green tea alternative for people with cold temperaments who are sensitive to green tea.  It has a smooth, drying quality to it that has a subtle but lasting appeal.  For my part, there are times when all I want to drink is yellow tea, particularly in the morning or early afternoon.  It satisfies a different type of thirst than do any other tea categories, and provides a full but reserved energy that lacks the tingling giddiness of green tea.