October 26, 2009

Timeless tailoring.

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.

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October 19, 2009

Guided.

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.)

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October 5, 2009

Convenient.

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.)

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September 30, 2009

Unspoken.

I was somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, and was growing restless because I couldn’t seem to fall asleep despite my exhaustion.

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.)

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September 8, 2009

Recess.

At the school across the street from my apartment, half the children are huddled up under the awning near the door, waiting in anticipation to get inside, while the other half are outside, enjoying the light drizzle from the sky as they run around in the playground and await the schoolbell.

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.)

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September 4, 2009

Crowded.

Orange line to New Carrolton, 8:15 on a weekday morning.

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.)

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August 31, 2009

Going postal.

It was only after I had paid for my stamps and was about to leave that Alan explained the worried expression on his face:

“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.)

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August 25, 2009

Need your help.

I don’t often talk about work or my professional life here on this site, but today I’m making an exception because I need your help.

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!

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August 18, 2009

Left behind.

The next time I start to get close to someone and start to develop a strong friendship, I think I need to ask them just how long they plan to stick around.

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)

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August 13, 2009

Bruised.

Last Friday, I was punched in the face. Twice.

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.)

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August 6, 2009

In plain sight.

Luis gave me my sight back. It was, as I said at the time, mind-blowing.

I lost my glasses in the sea on my first full day of my vacation in Barcelona. The fault was entirely my own: I was callous and underestimated the size and power of the surf, and I had lost my specs within the first minute of entering the water.

I am practically blind without my eyeglasses, unable to decipher anything but fuzzy blots of color around me. This was, obviously, not an auspicious way to start my first vacation in almost five years.

Later that afternoon, Luis, a local optician in Barcelona, was putting contact lenses into my eyes, giving me sight again. For free. (Many thanks go to my wonderful friends who found Luis for me while I fumbled about in the city.) Instead of taking advantage of a tourist that was in desperate need of help — I was willing to pay almost any price he would have quoted — Luis instead understood the situation and fixed the problem, out of the goodness of his heart, by giving me a a free pair of monthly contact lenses.

Luis is a true hero: a person who helps others not out of self-interest or the need for recognition, but because he truly cares for the well-being of the people around him.

That day in Barcelona, Luis didn’t just give me my sight back — he also reminded me why I’m an avid believer that all people, at their core, and kind and good.

That reminder was absolutely necessary and, as I said at the time, mind-blowing.

(Photo by slimmer_jimmer.)

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August 3, 2009

Things I have lost in major bodies of water.

A selected list.

Atlantic Ocean

• Walking stick.
• Moleskine.
• T-shirt.
• Shorts.
• Camera.

Pacific Ocean

• Favorite yo-yo.
• Hat.
• Room keys.
• Wallet.
• Glasses.
• School textbook.
• Kayak paddles.
• Several pieces of clothing.
• Pillow.

Indian Ocean

• Mobile phone.
• Shoes.
• Credit card.

Mediterranean Sea

• Hat.
• Pen.
• Glasses.

The things I have gained (like spending time with people I love), however, outweigh all the loss.

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July 23, 2009

Connected.

In the past five years, I have done a lot of traveling. More than most people. My travel, however, has been mostly for business meetings or for conferences; it has been about five years since I last took a real vacation.

Five years.

That’s five years of traveling with suits and shirts in my suitcase, not shorts. Five years of walking cities on my own during my sporadic free time between meetings. Five years of being happy that I’ve been able to explore the world, but still feeling a little constrained in my exploration.

Today, I leave for Barcelona on a much-needed vacation. A vacation where I travel with very special friends and spend time with people I love in places I want to explore. With no obligations, no schedules, no ties and suit jackets in my luggage.

While I’m gone, I’m going to be away from my computer and instead will focus on interacting with the people that are there with me. I won’t be checking email, or updating Twitter, Squandrous, or even I Tell Stories.

I would say that I’m going to be disconnected, but the opposite is in fact true. I’m going to be more connected than ever to the people and places around me. I’m looking forward to that.

I’m sure I’ll have many stories to share upon my return.

(Photo of Casa Batlló by Erik.)

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July 20, 2009

Partly cloudy.

I live in a neighborhood where it’s not unusual to see lots of people out and about at 7am on a Sunday morning. So when I first walked by Richard and his notepad, I paid him no notice.

Richard was sitting on a park bench this Sunday morning, staring up at the sky for a few seconds and then scribbling some notes on his notepad after that. He kept repeating this activity for the five minutes I was in the park, and judging from the torn-out pages sitting next to him, he had been doing this for quite some time.

My curiosity eventually got the better of me, and I asked if I could see his notes.

Each page was covered with dozens of short nouns, some mundane (ball), some extravagant (candelabra), many repeated (dog). Dozens and dozens of words on at least five or six pages.

Richard explained: this morning, he decided to come outside and stare at the clouds, and write down whatever shape he could see in every single cloud in the sky. For the past hour, he had been diligently scouring the sky for every cottony wisp, seeing everyday objects in each one.

His reason:

“Sometimes you just need to let your mind go and see things you hadn’t seen before.”

I concurred.

Around us, joggers hurtled by, exercising their bodies. Richard and I sat in the park exercising our imaginations.

(Photo by Jim/code poet.)

Partly cloudy.

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July 16, 2009

Welcome party.

I had managed to fit every single one of my personal belongings — including my pillows and duvet — into two suitcases. The cab driver that picked me up at Ronald Reagan National Airport in Washington DC eight years ago was impressed with my packing skills:

“Starting your freshman year and managed to get everything into two bags? Wow. Most people come with their parents in crowded vans or trucks.”

I was alone and a little overwhelmed. The cab driver could see the excitement and apprehension on my face. He offered to give me a quick tour of the city before dropping me off at my dorm.

I eagerly accepted.

The cab driver showed me the sights of DC and bought me lunch. He helped me take my two bags up the four flights of stairs to my Georgetown dorm room. He didn’t charge me for the cab ride, but instead left me saying:

“Consider me as your official Washington DC welcome party. Enjoy your time here.”

With that, he was gone.

Last week, I met that cab driver again.

After eight years, I didn’t actually recognize him as I passed him on the street. Instead, he stopped me:

“Looks like my welcome was so good that you decided to stick around.”

We went out for coffee and cupcakes. I shared my stories about leaving Georgetown and finally finding my way back to DC for work. He shared his stories about getting married and about his very recent, messy divorce.

I thanked him for being a wonderful welcome party all those years ago. He told me that no thanks were necessary; that it was thanks enough that I, one day, would help someone else feel welcome at a time when they felt very much alone.

I promised him that I would try. He smiled:

“By taking me out for coffee today, you just did.”

(Photo of taxi by Stephan Geyer.)

Welcome party.

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July 8, 2009

Recap.

A few weeks ago, I said I had run out of stories to tell.

That wasn’t totally true: my lack of inspiration was only temporary and short-lived. Later this week, I’ll be back to my regular posting schedule of stories of people that I meet and things that I see that inspire me to look at the world in different ways.

During my short hiatus, I was lucky to have five very talented storytellers share their own thoughts here on this site. Before I get back to telling my own stories, I strongly recommend you go back and read their submissions — and bookmark their own personal sites so you can continue to enjoy their tales.

• A bigger ring. A “love” story by Tony Tung.
• Inspirational: Nora Young. An appreciation by Karim Kanji.
• A Momentary Lapse in Effectiveness. A shot of perspective by Brendan Baker.
• Free tea. A tale of kindness by Natasha Tourabi.
• Masks. A story about memories by Mehnaz Thawer.

Thanks to everyone that shared their stories — including the few that I didn’t have the chance to post yet, next time, for sure — and to all of you for continuing to come back and read them.

Recap.

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July 6, 2009

Masks.

I’ve temporarily run out of stories to tell, so I’ve put out a call for you to share your stories here. If you have a story to share, please let me know! Today’s story — uncut and unedted — is from Mehnaz Thawer. Mehnaz’s story is wonderful look back at the small things that mean so much to us, and how they continue to impact our lives throughout the years.

When I was young, we lived in East Africa. One day we moved into a new house. While we were getting set up, I discovered some things that had been left behind by the children of the previous owner in what was now my room. Amongst them, I found a pair of ceramic masks, beautifully painted in bright but delicate hues, adorned in glitter and smiles. I loved those masks and let them hang above my bed while we lived there.

When we were moving to Canada, my mother packed away the masks in her suitcase to be given to my uncle’s family. At the time, it seemed like the worst thing in the world that I should have to part with them, but I quietly withstood the weight of her decision, trying to rationalize that they were only inanimate masks. The masks were given to their new owners, but I never did completely forget them. I also found out much later that they were Venetian Carnival masks. But to me, they meant so much more than where they had come from.

Some years ago, as I went through my uncle’s garage of his new home, I saw my dear masks. One was hanging on the wall. The other, was sadly cracked in half and lay beside its partner. Not quite tossed away, but rather neglected. At that point, it felt like a piece of my childhood may have been chiseled away from me.

Shortly after having discovered the fate of the original masks, one of my very best friends went to holiday to Italy. Upon her return, she gave me a gift that she claimed was “nothing”. To my delight, she had returned and brought back miniature version of the Venetian Mask from my childhood. My eyes welled up and she couldn’t figure out why exactly. Her gift meant the world to me.

I learned that sometimes things have a way of renewing themselves and appearing in different forms, especially when they mean something to you. It’s always a pleasant surprise to see something returned to you. It may not be in its original form, but it’s potent enough to hold all your old memories and some new ones.

My new Venetian carnival mask now hangs above my bed, just where as a child, its predecessor had graced my world with its presence.

Thanks to Mehnaz for today’s story. Have a story to tell? I’ve run out, so please share your own!

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July 3, 2009

Free tea.

I’ve temporarily run out of stories to tell, so I’ve put out a call for you to share your stories here. If you have a story to share, please let me know! Today’s story — uncut and unedted — is from Natasha Tourabi. It’s a perfect reminder that there is kindness in this world, hidden away where we least expect it.

This story is a few years old but one that is always on my mind, perhaps because part of it remains a mystery…

After finishing school, I took a year off and spent half of it working back home in Grenoble, in France and saved up all my money to spend the other half volunteering in India.

I did all sorts of boring jobs so to keep going until the departure date I decided to keep a bit of money to treat myself to something nice now and again. My special treat consisted of afternoons spent drinking teas of unusual flavours and savouring delicate chocolate cakes while writing in a fancy tea and cake shop.

One afternoon, one of the waitresses came to see me to say that the man who had just left had paid for my bill. I looked at her slightly confused. She reiterated and realising that I looked even more surprised, she asked me: “Don’t you know him?”

No, I did not know the man who had just left after paying for my bill. I vaguely knew who she was talking about because there were only three of us sat in that tea shop at that time. While I had not paid particular attention to this man, I was aware of his presence but no more than the other person sat at another table.

The waitress returned to her counter and let me deal with my confusion. All sorts of questions sprang through my mind as I was trying to make sense of the situation… Did I know him? Did he know me? Why did he pay? What did he want? When I came to that question my confusion turned into worry… I was worried about what he wanted. Surely a man who pays for a stranger’s bill, especially a female, wants something from her… I was convinced he would be waiting for me outside.

I wanted to stay longer to that he would get bored of waiting outside and eventually leave. But I had to leave too. I nervously and slowly headed towards the exit, imagining what he would say, imagining how I would respond. When I stepped out, the man was nowhere to be seen. I carefully looked all around me, expecting him to pop up from any corner within seconds… But he never did.

The man simply wanted to pay for my bill. He did not know me, but he knew enough about the happiness that comes with unexpected kindness. He did not have any expectations from me apart from I suppose hoping that his gesture would make me smile. He did not give me a chance to thank him but he gave me a chance to remember that we are free to be kind to each other… and that the most generous gifts are full of surprises and free from expectations. But I wish I could thank him…

Thanks to Natasha for today’s story. Have a story to tell? I’ve run out, so please share your own!

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June 30, 2009

A Momentary Lapse in Effectiveness

I’ve temporarily run out of stories to tell, so I’ve put out a call for you to share your stories here. If you have a story to share, please let me know! Today’s story — uncut and unedted — is from Brendan Baker. It’s the kind of story we all need to remember, and gave me a reason to pause and reflect on just how blessed I really am.

This is Debenew. He shined my shoes today.

Anybody with remotely nice shoes is constantly approached by shoe-shiners. My instinct is generally to say no. I think this is a Canadian thing. I’m used to egalitarianism. There’s a small amount of discomfort having somebody do these tasks for me, shoes, laundry. I end up thanking much more than is normal.

But today, as with some days, I agreed. ‘Waga sente no?’ ‘And Birr.’ One Birr. ‘Eshe’. The clincher was the fact that he’s working. Not begging. Trying to bring in some small amount of money for him or his family. maybe 10 Birr per day. And I’d much rather support people working than begging, which does little to help the long term problems. My rationale, my gut decision, was that it was a productive action. A tiny contribution, based on effectiveness.

We headed over to the shade and he got to work, pulling a rag, brushes and cream out of his wooden box. Cleaning my shoes, brushing them clean and shining them, all punctuated by the tap on the box signaling a shoe switch.

It was during this time that I looked at him carefully. All 6 or 7 years of him. He was so businesslike. So determined. Professional, actually. And the kid was all of 7 years old. In Canada, he would be just starting school. A little coddled maybe. Soccer practice, art lessons. Doted on by grandparents. New Nikes.

Here he is busting his ass for about a buck a day.

I realized again why people start orphanages here. Support schools. Not all of these efforts are well thought-out or designed, but I’ll bet most are triggered by what I felt while looking at Debenew: this kid deserves better than this. He’s been put in his situation, and working through it, diligently and without complaint. It was an emotional attachment that shifted my motivation from effectiveness to compassion. I left him 4 birr.

Thanks to Brendan for today’s story. Have a story to tell? I’ve run out, so please share your own!

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June 28, 2009

Inspirational: Nora Young

I’ve temporarily run out of stories to tell, so I’ve put out a call for you to share your stories here. If you have a story to share, please let me know! Today’s story — uncut and unedted — is from Karim Kanji. It’s a perfectly-timed post about someone he finds inspirational, so it only makes sense to post it today.

Many of you who know Vasta know that outside of being a great story teller and student of people’s, he is also a social media…student. I’ve had a chance to listen a a few of his podcasts and am amazed that this former Boy Scout is so technologically talented.

I’m not. Which is why I enjoy Nora Young.

Nora Young is host of Spark. Spark is a CBC show, a blog and a community of sorts. Check it out at cbc.ca/spark.

The reason I enjoy Spark and Nora Young is because of her take on technology. You see, Spark is a show about technology. But it’s more than that. It’s a show about today’s life — which just happens to be happening at a time of massive technological change, shift and development.

Nora has a way of presenting her program that speaks to me — a person who uses technology and social media but is not a student nor professional user of these tools.

Yesterday I had the chance to hear her speak about her show and technology during a Third Tuesday Toronto get together. And I also took the time to tell her my thoughts about her show and how I am able to enjoy it because of her style.

So, thank you Nora Young for widening the circle and allowing the rest of us to participate in today’s technology shifts.

Thanks to Karim for today’s story. Have a story to tell? I’ve run out, so please share your own!

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