I was walking through Chefchaouen with pants that were ripped apart, exposing my underwear. I knew it was not too polite of me towards the muslim locals, but I thought that there was not much I could do. I did not have another pair.

As I was walking up the hill, a man behind me told me that I should visit a tailor. What a brilliant idea. I was amazed I did not think about this option earlier. It had not even crossed my mind.


I went to one of the squares and following the tips of passers-by, stumbled upon a building with a long, wooden balcony surrounding it. I climbed up the stairs, skipping every second step. I usually would hop 3 stairs a step, but the torn pants taught me new habits. Once up on the balcony, I it was full of artisans working with paint, materials, wool and wood. As I walked through all of them, I went to the very last cabinet, which had a tailor inside. He was busy sewing, but happy, too. Slowly, we agreed on a good price and I trusted him with my pants.

The man could work the sewing machine. He himself was like a machine working a machine. One hand on material, the other one would be flying forth and back inserting and taking out the thread through the material. He was inside his job. His mind was in it. If he would have enough material, the man could reach nirvana, I thought. I decided it was time for me to leave him be and come back after he is finished.

While sipping on an avocado milkshake, I thought it would be cool if I could focus on the milkshake as the man did on my pants. I tried, but the milkshake was gone in no time and I was left with my thoughts. Eh. I decided to leave the thoughts outside and indulge in a hamam.

A few hours later, I came back to the tailor. He presented me with his work. It was very well done. Before I could even mumble my thanks, he was back at work. Back in his world, inside his mind.

Teo Gregg

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