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It was impossible to find a decent cup of tea. Americans just don’t have the knack for it. While the streets of LA were littered with little coffee spots and boutique eateries - perfect places to gather intel and observe the residents - central Arizona lacked anything other than Dunkin' Donuts and Starbucks chains. Tea, in the traditional sense, is simply not a cultural necessity. After five months of living in the desert state, walking the footsteps of cinematic cowboys and whistling Hollywood tunes as tumbleweeds crossed my path, I was in dire need of a cup of tea. A well-blended, black, full-bodied tea with just a dash of milk served in thin bone china, that was all my heart wished for. Perched on the faded vinyl seat of a diner I once thought only existed in movies, a miniature 'honkey-tonk' playing a tune on the cool metal and Formica table between my travel companion and self, I attempted to order this much-needed cup of tea. This diner was one of the many 50s era mum-and-pops eateries that lived nestled in beside a long stretch of road that seemingly went nowhere. Surrounded by desert, cacti and cow farms, it was my dearest hope that I could gain something other than the syrupy sweet so-called tea those of the south so enjoyed. The waitress approached. An older woman wrapped in a pastel dress with flouncy apron, brandishing a palm-sized notepad and pencil, greeted us with a drawling, "what can I get ya, hun?" I expressed my need for tea. "One sweet tea, gotcha." "Ah, no, sorry. I mean a hot cup of tea." She arched her plucked eyebrow at me, hand on hip and a smile on her face, "ya'll not from 'round 'ere are ya? English?" I nodded and smiled, failing to correct that the accent she was hearing was Australian. By this point, I was used to being mistaken for English, German, and even Scandinavian - due to my pale colouring. Normally happy to discuss my land of origin with the ever-enthusiastic and curious Americans, my need for that glorious golden nectar of the gods outweighed my love of country. "Well, we only 'ave sweet tea and maybe I can rustle ya' up some not-sweet tea, hun. I could probably warm one of those up for ya'," she shrugged, her expression a mixture of amusement and sheer horror that anyone should mess with the national treasure that is a southern sweet tea. I accepted her offer. How bad could it be? It was bad. It was really, really bad. Even more so when, despite the diner being situated right next door to a dairy farm, it was served with room temperature half-and-half cream. Only at my insistence for milk, mind. No southerner in their right mind would mess with sweet tea. It was a further two months before I gained that much-needed cup of tea. Nestled in an oversized wing-backed chair, perched at the top of the Queen Victoria Building in central Sydney. Drizzled in rain and fresh from a thirteen-hour flight, dressed in cargo pants and an oversized jacket, towing my outrageously green suitcase, I savoured that pot of hot Australian tea. Served in fine bone china. Americans don't get tea. Not in the traditional sense. But they do make wonderful cheesecake.