Today’s story (and photo) is by Brendan Baker.

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.

It’s not every day that someone asks me a question where the answer sets me aback. A few weeks ago, Barish did just that.

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.)

Manny owned the convenience store across the street from my high school.

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.)