The Pea Project – Part 3: Improvised, Not Perfect

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                     The paint wasn’t even properly dry and we carried straight on. Interior build. For now we skipped insulation completely. Same with a roof vent and side windows — mainly because of time, not because we suddenly decided we don’t need them. Quite the opposite. But for the first trip they weren’t life-or-death items. At that moment, two things were non-negotiable: a bed and a kitchen. Let’s start with the bed. Somewhere, there was a slatted bed base lying around. Naturally not one that fit the van. But it was far too big for its new job — which made it the perfect starting point. Four hours of sawing, drilling and swearing later, everything fit that previously… didn’t. What was still missing was the mattress. And that turned out to be less trivial than expected. Because the bed isn’t a standard size, we had to improvise. A custom mattress will come later — once we’ve given the whole “bed concept” the green li...
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Project Marrakesh – Part 2: The Decision at the Kitchen Window

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Project Marrakesh

 

  

Sometimes a new adventure doesn’t start with an engine note
or the twist of an ignition key,
but with a plain conversation at the kitchen table.

Before an idea could become a project,
before “Marrakesh” was anything more than a vague direction on a map,
I had to convince someone who associated this car with far more than metal, mechanics, or market value.

The Porsche’s owner.

For her, the 944 was never “just a car”.
It was part of her life —
a quiet companion,
a partner to her husband,
who passed away almost a quarter of a century ago.
Since that day the car had stood in the very same spot,
silently watched from the kitchen window,
as if looking down into the courtyard was the last thin thread still holding the past in place.

Anyone who tried to buy the Porsche didn’t hit a price tag.
They hit an emotional boundary.
Because if the car left, something else would go with it:
no bodywork visible through the window,
no familiar outline,
no daily proof that a life once lived was still… somehow there.

When we met, it wasn’t about technical questions.
Not about rust, paperwork, or negotiations.
It was about trust.
About showing her that the Porsche wouldn’t vanish into some backstreet workshop,
wouldn’t be stripped for parts,
wouldn’t be passed on carelessly like an old tool nobody wants.

We talked for a long time.
About memories, about journeys, about the car —
about the kind of things you can’t capture in photos.
She wanted to know who I was,
why I wanted this car,
and what I planned to do with it.

It felt like a job interview, really.
Just with less HR and a lot more heart.

While she spoke, a cup of coffee sat between us.
And behind her, through the window, I could see the Porsche:
silent, dusty, frozen in its own time.

At some point — without any single sentence causing it — something shifted.
One of those moments that forms quietly,
without announcing itself.

She took a deep breath, gave a small smile,
and finally said:

“Yes. Take it.
It should drive again.”

And that was that.

It would be my car.
My responsibility.
My next chapter.

And somewhere between coffee, memory,
and that view from the kitchen window,
Project Marrakesh was born.

Project Marrakesh – Part 2 of 8

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