When you have a clothing malfunction in Rabat, you go to The Tailor. The legendary tailor has been conjuring clothing, patching up rips in the universal fabric, and generally making things right in the Medina for decades.

And so, with my wounded favorite linen shirt in hand, and directions from a guy next door, I set out to find the man who could make amends.

I somehow made my way through the baffling labyrinth of the Medina to his little cubby off the main avenue. It was piled with reams of fabric, tunics, boxes of thread, and thousands of tiny javelins. On a heavy work table in the center of his kiosk sat a gilded, one-hundred pound, human-powered flywheel with a needle.

The Tailor was virtually beaming as I stepped in and tried to mime what had happened and wondered whether he could help repair my injured tapestry. He nodded, took it and immediately sat down and began to work.

So there I stand with my beluga-white skin exposed above the belt for the entire population of Morocco to see. My dignity was lying in a puddle on the floor, but not a soul was bursting into uncontrollable laughter. I’m so grateful that Moroccans truly are charitable people!

After some time of vigorous sewing, glueing, pounding and ironing, the tailor stood up quickly and pronounced his work was done with a brilliant smile and genuine pride. His mates cheered him from their stools on his doorstep, and I too, was thrilled!

I cheerfully paid my twenty dirham and was off to disentangle the alleyways of the Medina back to my riad for breakfast.

The clock had yet to make its way to eight.