Just before heading back to the UK, I needed to get a suit tailored. A tux actually. It needed to fit more like a tux and less like a paper bag. (It’s at this point where I always think of a line in the second to last 007: “There are dinner jackets, and then there are dinner jackets. This is the latter.”)

I was having breakfast on Commercial Drive, and so went over to Renzo & Co, across the street. He (Renzo?) wasn’t in, so I popped in to the bakery next door to inquire. As I did so, he showed up and unlocked his door, an hour after opening hours. Nothing that greeted me inside had been changed within a decade. The suits were of dated styles. The decor simple, well kept and faded. Greens and burgundies. The machines, right in the back corner were the bomproof pastel sewing equipment of decades past. And Renzo himself was verging on retirement. I suspected this, but it was quickly confirmed.

“I only come in sometimes now. I’m mostly retired.”

We talked for awhile. He claimed to be one of the last poor tailors that came from Vancouver from the ‘old country’. We never determined where—somewhere Mediterranean? He decided what needed to be done to the tux (and explained why the other way wouldn’t fit properly), but he revealed that he couldn’t do it in time, suggesting a few tailors who might be able to. After a few minutes of this, he declared:

“I can have it done by Saturday. If you went somewhere else and they didn’t do a good job, I would be disapointed.”

As I thanked him and turned to leave, a half-empty order pad caught my eye on the table.

“Well you can’t retire just yet, you’ve still got some pages to use up”, I declared.

“I have boxes of those. They made a mistake on them in 1959. I haven’t ordered them since.”

And as I watched, he corrected the phone number on my slip, changing the pre-60s ‘AL’ format to ‘25’.

“That number should work. It’s the new one. You can pick them up on Saturday. If I’m not here, I’ll leave them with the baker next door.”

When I returned a few days later, he had not only finished, but done double the work, feeling that the original tailoring plans would not wear right. I put the tux on, and agreed: it fit like my tux, not just one from a random rack. He refused additional payment, and bid me a good time in Oxford.

Feeling I had stumbled upon something undeniably authentic, I wish Renzo a relaxing retirement. Only slightly less than I wish he stays around a little longer, so I can take him another suit someday.

Brendan Baker is a friend and wonderful storyteller who spends his days changing the world and the lives of people around him. Check out more of his stories and his photos on Cashewman, or visit his project The First Drop, a place for informed and accountable discussion among Canada’s next generation of leadership.

You can read Brendan’s previous story on this site here: A Momentary Lapse in Effectiveness.

Barish was our tour guide at the Hagia Sofia. He offered these tours during his free time, traveling around the city, helping people discover the joys of Istanbul. We liked him so much that we asked him to accompany us to the cisterns and the Blue Mosque as well.

Tours with Barish weren’t typical museum-style walkthroughs. Instead, they were explorations, voyages of discovery, filled with more folk tales than facts, more story than history. Barish engaged us in theological debate and philosophical discussion; the tour was more about our experiences and our own context than it was about the stuff we’d find on Wikipedia.

Barish wasn’t a typical tour guide because he wasn’t a tour guide — he was a student. He had completed an undergraduate degree in history, a Master’s degree in philosophy, and was now working on his next degree in theology. He spent most of his time in class or in the library.

With his busy schedule, I asked Barish how he managed to find time to give tours of his city. He looked at me as if the answer was obvious:

“I do this because I love new people, I love sharing knowledge, I love Istanbul.”

He continued:

“I do this because I love doing it. Isn’t that why you do what you do?”

My answer set me aback:

“It was.”

(Photo by Claudio.)

I got to know Manny quite well; I’d drop by the store every single day to say hullo — and occasionally to buy something too. All my friends loved him because Manny took an interest in our lives: he knew our class schedules, asked about our test results, came to our concerts and cheered us on during our theater productions. He’d put up posters in the store advertising our school events, and would even put the art students’ work up behind the counter for everyone to see.

In tenth grade, I was the campaign manager for a slate of friends who decided to run for student council on a joint platform. Manny let me transform the store into a de facto campaign headquarters. Our party won four of the six seats for which we were competing; Manny gave me free cookies for a week in celebration.

For the three years I attended that school, Manny was an integral part of my high school experience.

A few weeks ago, as I was walking to the subway stop after a lovely morning in Cabbagetown, I decided to drop by the convenience store and say hullo to Manny.

The store was empty. Manny was stacking bottles of Pepsi into the fridge while the sounds of a guitar played from his stereo speakers.

He recognized me immediately. We caught up — in a short few minutes — on the ten years that had passed since I had left. Manny had started to sprout gray hair, I noticed; most conspicuously, I noticed the lack of school posters, lack of student work around the store.

After our chat, I bought a pack of gum and started to leave. Before I did, Manny pointed towards the stereo and asked:

“It’s pretty good, isn’t it? It’s by one of the students from the school. She’s a great singer too, even better than you were — are you still singing?”

I learned that some things change: Manny was sporting gray hair, and I don’t sing anymore. I also learned that some things, thankfully, never change — that Manny is still an integral part of the high school experience for the kids across the street.

(Photo by kamoda.)

The bearded, middle-aged man sitting next to me didn’t speak a word of English, and had spent the first four hours of the flight buried in his book of Sudoku puzzles.

My tossing and turning must have alerted him to my restlessness, and sensing that something was eating at me, something was on my mind, he put away his Sudoku book, pulled out a sheet of paper, and drew a tic-tac-toe grid.

He passed the grid my way.

We played tic-tac-toe, in silence, for ten minutes — long enough for me to get my mind off things, for me to stop worrying about work, about the future, about my ailing grandma, about friends that I was missing terribly. Stop worrying, at least, for the time being.

After ten minutes, he put away the sheets of paper, and I leaned back into deep slumber.

As we got off the plane and went our separate ways to our connecting flights, I nodded at him. He nodded back — an unspoken, wordless way of acknowledging my thanks.

(Photo by frozenchipmunk.)

Today is the day after Labor Day. Today is the first day back at school.

We all have our memories of back-to-school, full of nervousness and excitement and apprehension and wonder. I can remember getting on the bus and sitting next to Elizabeth on my first day of kindergarten, or sitting next to Jonathan, Joanne, and Tiffany in history class on my first day of sixth grade, or getting picked up by Catia at the airport on the first day of my first year at Pearson.

As students, our first days are often filled with glee and sometimes filled with sadness. They shape the school year ahead, and back-to-school memories become stories we tell in subsequent years as we grow older.

But what about teachers? Is the first day of classes a memorable occasion for them? Do they get nervous, excited — are they unsure of what to expect, like their students?

Last week, I spoke to my friend Aurelia who is entering her fifth year as a third-grade teacher. I asked her about the impending first day of school; she told me she was terrified.

I was intrigued. She had lived through almost twenty back-to-school days as a student, and five as a teacher: how could she be terrified?

“What students don’t realize is that teachers have the same fears, the same nervousness as they do. They want to make a good impression. They want to be seen as interesting and cool, they want to be be saying the right things and be carrying the right accessories. They want to be subject of positive conversation in the schoolyard.”

“As a teacher, a large part of my effectiveness is making sure I can connect to each student and make an impression on each one. We’ve been preparing for weeks — months — for the first day, and the night before, we ask ourselves the same questions the students do: what if the kids in the class don’t like me? What if I say something wrong? What if I mess up and nobody wants to hang out with me at recess?”

“The first day back at school is daunting for teachers too — it’s just that the students don’t know it. But as nervous as you are the night before, you always wake up in the morning knowing one important thing that’s going to help you get through the first day…”

“Today, I’m going to make a difference in a someone’s life.”

(Photo by Joseph Robertson.)

The train was already crowded by the time it rolled in to Rosslyn station, full of grumpy commuters in suits, many of whom were quite obvious with their displeasure at having to be crammed into a barely-air-conditioned subway so early in the morning.

Mark was already on the train when I got on, rocking back and forth on his feet, occasionally spinning in place, fidgeting more than the usual antsy morning commuter. Every few seconds, he apologized to someone for bumping into them, but yet, he continued his rocking, his spinning.

Many of the passengers on the train met Mark with stares of disdain; some muttered obscenities and insults. Mark was not oblivious to the reaction he was causing. Still, he continued his uncoordinated dance.

I had seen this behavior before. I grabbed the pen out of my pocket and scribbled one word on my hand and flashed it at Mark:

“Claustrophobic?”

He nodded at me with a small frown on his face.

Another friend of mine had once told me about her way of dealing with her claustrophobia: when forced into crowded spaces, move around so that it looks like you’re making space for yourself — and keep doing it until you’re able to escape the cramped situation. Mark was doing the same thing, while the commuters around him looked at him with scorn, unaware.

At the next stop, I managed to maneuver us both between the crowd so that Mark was positioned between me and the train doors. There, he could move around, sway and spin, without fear of bumping into anyone but me and the doors. We made light conversation about the upcoming baseball playoffs, ignoring the other passengers around us. I rode the extra two stops after my own until he got off, hoping that the small frown I had seen before had finally shaken off while he spun in place in front of me.

(Photo by Rik Koenig.)

“Some of us are going to lose our jobs.”

Alan was right: postal workers across the United States are being let go — about 30,000 of them are getting buyouts —  because the postal service is in deficit and it needs to take drastic action.

This news made me sad not only because I use the postal service more often than most, but because it made Alan sad.

Alan and I started to get to know each other about six months ago, after he noticed that I had visited the post office five times in four weeks. He told me it wasn’t normal for people to use the postal service that often, and I told him that I was okay with not being normal. He knows the names of all my friends (last week, he remarked that I hadn’t sent a letter to my friend Jen in a while) and is up to date on everything going on in my life.

Going to the post office isn’t something I do every week just because I’m running out of stamps. Instead, it’s my excuse to say hullo to Alan, to catch up on how he’s doing, to hear all about how fast his kids are growing up. Alan is my friend, so when I saw the worried expression on his face, I knew he wanted to talk about what was eating at him.

It’s obvious that the postal service is in trouble: mismanagement and bad business decisions has made the service incredibly vulnerable in a time where email and other forms of communication are reducing the need for sending regular mail. At this point, the USPS is struggling not to thrive, but to survive; survival in this case means cutting costs, and part of that is cutting jobs.

Alan’s job is expected to be safe, but he’s not sure about his fellow colleagues at the post office. While it saddens him to know that some of his coworkers will be leaving, it saddens him even more to know that there’s really nothing they can do to make it better:

“In the end, it all comes down to one thing: most people don’t send mail anymore.”

I asked for Alan’s address that day before leaving the post office. I’m going to send him a letter telling him that while most people might not send mail anymore, I’m not most people. And that I’m glad he’s my friend.

It may not solve the woes of the postal service, but hopefully it will help wipe that worried expression off his face, if only for a few minutes.

(Photo by mrjoro.)

I’ve been given the honor to join a proposed panel for SXSW next year with Meghan (@withoutayard), Ryan (@ryantaylor), and James (@TopsAtWarChild) on passionate people online and how passion can translate into social change and social good. The panel will talk about identifying personal passions and turning them into careers, and also about the increasingly blurred line between everyone’s personal and professional lives.

I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: I love what I do for a career. I love that I’m able to take the things that intrigue me most in my life — community, personal interaction, storytelling, social good — and parlay those interests into the work I do.

This panel will not only give me the opportunity to share a few stories on how I’m able to do that, but also for me to learn about things that other SXSW participants are passionate about, and how we can all work to pursue our passions for the greater good.

So here’s where I need your help. If you click on the image above, or on this link to the SXSW panel picker, you’ll get the option to create an account and vote for your favorite panels. You don’t have to vote for our panel on passionate people if it doesn’t pique your curiosity, but if it does, I’d appreciate the support.

I can assure you that SXSW will not spam you or sell your details — they only require you to create an account to keep the process fair — and can also assure you that the whole process will only take two minutes of your time.

Thanks in advance for your help. If we do get chosen, I promise to come back with many stories to share.

And while you’re at it, here are a few other proposed panels that have caught my eye so far. You may want to vote for them too:

• Community Management: Future Skills You’ll Need to Know
• A Different Documentary: Online Storytelling & Social Change
• Crowd Sourcing Innovative Social Change
• Millionaire or Artist? How About Both?
• Brilliant Second Acts You Must Steal Tricks From
• Ditch the Old to Build Your Dream Life
• SXSW SARS
• News 2.0 - How Old Media Companies Are Inventing New Models
• OpenData: Creating Cities That Think Like the Web
• How to Make Your Users Love You
• Don’t Stop Believin: Why Karaoke WILL Change the World
• Your Content is You, Your Website is Dead

Thanks again!

Many of the closest friends I have made since moving to DC have all moved away. K1 kicked off the trend when she left in May, and C left in July, shortly after getting married. After weeks of uncertainty, A left while I was away in Barcelona. K2 drove away exactly a week ago, and this week, F says adieu as well. Perhaps it is due to the transient nature of this city, but I never thought I would have so many chances to watch people I hold dearest to my heart walk (drive, fly, etc.) away.

There was a line in Audrey Niffenegger’s The Time Traveler’s Wife that stood out to me as I re-read the novel earlier this year:

“It’s hard being left behind. […] It’s hard to be the one who stays.”

All my life, I’ve been the one who did the leaving. I left my birthplace as a baby, and left New York as a child. I eschewed going to the same high school as all my friends in order to go to a French school in downtown Toronto, and ended up leaving that school after a few years to finish my secondary education on the other side of the country. After a stint at college in DC, I returned back to Toronto, and since graduation, I’ve been hopping from city to city across continents, leaving friends and loved ones behind as I’ve moved on.

I have complained that it has been extremely hard to move around, to never really settle, to leave friends and family every time new opportunities arose in new places. Sometimes those complaints were vocal, but most often, I kept them to myself and let them manifest in midnight dreams of routine and stability.

Now I realize that it isn’t the leaving that’s difficult. For the person leaving, there’s always new adventures to tackle, new challenges to conquer, new people to meet. On the other side, the person being left behind goes on with their every day life, but with a small piece of emptiness where their friend used to be. That’s never easy.

Indeed, it’s hard to be the one who stays.

(Photo by caruba, found via Maria)

I realize this story is going to horrify my mother, so I’ll keep it quick.

The DC Metro on a Friday evening is always crowded; last Friday, the riders on the subway car were packed in even closer because they were trying to get out of the way of two young men engaged in a fistfight near one of the doors. The two young men went at each other with no regards for the people around them, pushing through anyone that got in their way.

I’m not usually one to step in and try and stop a fight, but there came a time — after one of the fighting men had knocked over a child on the subway and the other had inadvertently knocked off a young woman’s glasses — when something had to be done, something had to be said. I cautiously walked over to the two brawlers and asked them if they would take their fight off the train, to stop inconveniencing the other riders.

What happened next, happened quickly. I was punched in the face twice by one of the fighters and was pushed against a railing and kicked by the other. By that time, we had pulled in to the next stop and a gaggle of security guards walked into the train whisked the three of us away.

So why am I sharing this story? I didn’t press charges, I didn’t stop the fight, and I sure didn’t learn anything wonderful about the world as I was nursing my bruises on a Friday night — there is little in common here with the other stories I normally tell. I’m sharing this story to remind myself that the events in our life don’t always have to be uplifting, don’t always have to end in cheer and joy, and don’t always have to teach a grand lesson about the world. Sometimes you come away banged up and bruised, and that’s okay too.

I’m sharing this story because not every story that gets told needs to feel like a fairy tale. It’s important for me to remember that sometimes, especially now.

(Photo by Brian Talbot.)