So you walk on over to the store, leisurely, swaying a bit from side to side — for there's never any real rush for kelp tea.
You get the the kind in the tin, because it's fancy and you've never had it before.
You take the little pouch out of the tin and crack it open. There's a little spoon, too, to scoop just enough into your hot water. (You pretentiously put a real gourd nearby for effect.)
You realize that kelp powder tea is really soup so you pour it from your tea cup to a lacquered miso bowl. You drink noncommittally. You think, "Now I'm drinking kelp powder tea."
A little later you're hungry. So you say in a loud voice: "What I could really use right now are some bone crackers!"
You recruit your friends and you go to a kaitenzushi.
You sidle up to the bar, smacking your lips. You blurt out: "Hone senbei!"
Those same fish, hirame, you saw hanging from the posts at the pier yesterday. Everyone nods.
You eat, plucking different brightly colored dishes off the rotating conveyor belt, Tokyo style, no chopsticks.
After a while you decide you've had enough. The kelp tea taste is still with you, briny and insidious. The sea inside you.