The Kindness Diaries: One Man's Quest to Ignite Goodwill and Transform Lives Around the World

by Logothesis, Leon

  Sure, I worked in Mayfair, the Beverly Hills of London. And sure, I made money, but to me, it was all meaningless. Because for years, I thought that if I could only make more, if I could only achieve more, that somehow I would be more. More of what, I had no idea. Because no matter how many zeroes I put in my bank account, I always felt bankrupt inside.

  After landing in Los Angeles I worked hard to eradicate that part of my life. I traveled. I spent time connecting with people, and spent as little time in an office as possible. But then slowly, things began to change.

  I started working on a new project in the TV business. My days in the office got longer; my nights at home got shorter. If I wasn’t at work, I was thinking about work. I lived on my laptop, and when not on my laptop, I lived on my phone. I thought for sure if I could just get this one TV show off the ground, everything would be right with the world. I had replaced one superficial gig for another, but I couldn’t see that. Instead, I simply believed I was following a dream. I was making things happen. And I was becoming an annoying coworker, friend, and partner in the process.

  Lina would ask me to do something on the weekend, and I would invariably be an hour late. She would be upset, but I would explain, “Babe, this project is about to happen. I swear. And then it will all be over.”

  How right I was, because two weeks before I was supposed to leave for the new TV show I was producing, I got the call—the green light had turned red. The show was being canceled.

  All the hours, all the hard work, all the angry voicemails from my girlfriend went down the drain, and my ego went down right there with it. I shut down entirely. I wouldn’t talk to Lina about it. I wouldn’t get out of bed. Lina would go to work, and I would draw the shades and hide.

  Until one day, she came home and opened them for me, saying without words, “Enough.” That was the day I went to Hollywood Boulevard, the day I saw the homeless man. And I knew, just as I knew on that rainy Monday in London, that change doesn’t come to us. We must go seek it.

  After three days of driving through the golden haze of America’s heartland—through sun-drenched wheat fields and mind-blowing sunsets, I finally arrived at the outskirts of the sleepy city of Lexington, Nebraska. One aspect of Nebraska I wasn’t prepared for were all the bloody cornfields. Lots and lots of cornfields. So many that I lost count after the first 116.

  I pulled off the highway and found myself on an old farm road. This was the America I had often imagined, without even realizing that it actually existed: endless farmland with big red barns, tall water towers, and grain silos dotting an otherwise flat landscape. I stopped to look around. In so many ways, this was exactly what I had left London for: the fresh air of an open land, the beauty of an unknown destination; and in many ways, it was also why I left LA. Because as much as I loved Lina and our life, I also loved this. I loved being free.

  I got back on my bike, a lone wolf driving through the prairie, a stranger in a strange town, and a desperate chap who was about to run out of gas. But then again, I always ran out of gas. That’s part of the deal when you’re driving across the world with no money. But it was also the driving force of this adventure. Not knowing where this road might take me was taking me down wonderful, twisting, and unexpected roads. I pulled into the small town of Lexington, ready for whatever might happen next.

  I saw the men almost immediately—they were in an obscenely large pickup truck, wore dusty hats, and one of them even had some tobacco in his mouth. That’s right, cowboys.

  “Excuse me,” I asked the older one after he closed his truck door. “Very random question, but are you a cowboy?”

  Without even blinking, he answered me matter-of-factly, “Yes.”

  Darrel was wearing a dark red cowboy shirt and cowboy jeans and a cowboy belt, and, oh my goodness, I couldn’t help myself from exclaiming, “You even have cowboy shoes?!”

  (Yes, I said that.)

  Not my most polished introduction, I know. But it’s been a long-standing dream of mine to be a cowboy, and if this trip was all about making people’s dreams come true, I figured it didn’t hurt if one of them was mine. I asked them if they had a farm, and when I found out they did, I offered my services in exchange for a place to sleep.

  Darrel and his ranch hand, Seth, had just come into town to pick up some supplies. I figured if Seth could apprentice on the farm, why couldn’t I? Darrel answered me just as calmly as before, as though he was asked this question every day, “Yeah, we can do that.”

  I followed them down the highway and onto one of the most picturesque roads I had ever seen; it felt like I was driving slap-bang into the middle of the movie Field of Dreams.

  The first thing Darrel did was introduce me to his family, all ten of them. They all seemed genuinely happy to meet me. Entertained by my fascination with all things cowboy, they were willing to indulge me, even dressing me up as one and taking me on a tour of the farm, led by an eight-year-old girl who drove me around in an ATV. I guess what happens in Nebraska stays in Nebraska, unless you meet some pesky Englishman who tells everyone your secrets.

  I will tell you right now, lest you think I had some previous skills in this area: I have never lassoed anything before in my life. Ever. So when Darrel handed me a rope and asked me to lasso one of his cows, which was minding its own business in a nearby field, I felt a tinge of apprehension. I mean, a moving target? Sure it was a bloody slow-moving one, but still? Even worse than the challenge was the fear that I might fail and a make fool of myself in front of my new friends.

  All my life, I have feared failure. Maybe that’s why I decided it was easier to be the jester, everyone expects the jester to mess it all up. As I sent the rope forth only to watch it fall feet away from my intended target, I could feel the mask of silliness rise up and envelop my very being. Suddenly, I didn’t want to fail at this.

  As Darrel walked up to take back the rope, I gently stopped him.

  “No, please give me one more try.” I breathed in deep, let go of the jester, and out soared the rope, falling beautifully across Bessie’s neck. (She didn’t actually have a name, so we’ll just call her Bessie for posterity.)

  Darrel and his grandsons cheered. I thought I surely earned their respect, their admiration, but only minutes later, as I was getting on a horse for the first time, I could hear Seth telling one of the kids, “He’s like an eight-year-old cowboy, but he can learn.”

  After making fun of me for hours, Darrel and the rest of his family finally decided it was time to feed this bruised and humiliated Englishman some good ol’ cowboy burgers. Cheeseburgers? Now that, I’m good at.

  As the sun set in the distance, the mirrored sky fading across the fields, I thanked this amazing family for taking a day out of their life to show me theirs. We sat together in the quiet of the evening, and I realized this was the real upside of cowboy life—the small moments that filled their lives. The big stuff, the grand moments, will always come and go. But it’s the little ones that have the real potential to change us.

  I stayed that night with my cowboy friends and could feel the connection to life that their work brought them. When I was a boy, we would go and visit a small island in Greece called Chios, where my mother was from and where my grandmother still lives. Growing up in the city, I found it exhilarating to be on an island where we felt safe and could go and do whatever our little imaginations desired. We jumped off rocky cliffs and ran wild through the villages. But it wasn’t just hanging out with my fellow little people with funny Greek accents that made me love those summers; it was the freedom of connecting with the land. For Darrel, his family, and Seth, every day brought that connection. I could feel it in them, and for the first time in a long time, I could feel it in me.

  I left the farm the next morning and headed back to the big city—driving towards Chicago. My heart was filled with love. I spent an evening in Chicago and, after struggling through another br
eakdown with the bike, received some great news. The shipping company had sent an email confirming that I was all set for the ship to Europe! I would have to be in New York in a few days so the bike could be crated for its journey across the Atlantic Ocean. I was still 793 miles away from New York, though, and was suddenly in a race against time.

  I headed east, straight through the heart of Amish country. I thought the Amish would be the easiest group to ask for help, but when I told a local shopkeeper about the camera crew waiting outside, he replied, “The local folks, they’re going to have issues with those cameras.”

  That’s right. My trusty team of producers, who hovered ever so silently in the background, went against one of the main testaments of the Amish: no graven images. However, cameras off, one Amish family helped me with a tank of gas, and I found a local pastor whose humble and gracious family were willing to house one exhausted and scruffy Brit for the night.

  The next day, I got back into my same shabby outfit, had a small bite to eat, and breathed in the deep morning air. Small moments, indeed.

  And then I got pulled over.

  “You see, officer,” I explained to the Pennsylvania state trooper, “I am on a mission of kindness. Me and my bike here, Kindness One. Kind of like Air Force One, the president’s . . .”

  He grunted, “Uh huh.”

  “Oh, okay. So though driving 52 in a 45 on a yellow motorbike might be technically illegal, I didn’t mean to do it illegally.”

  I waited. I am sure he was deciding the chances of ever seeing this ticket paid by an Englishman on a bright yellow bike. He looked me up and down, and then let me off with a warning. The magic of yellowness, I say!

  It was time to decide where to go to next, and I picked Pittsburgh. Because, well, why not? I drove to the center of town and parked near one of the local parks.

  The only downside of parks in big cities is that as much as they might be a great place to meet people, they also often contain the sadder side of life—vagrants and homeless people—and, depending where you are, crime.

  Before I even entered the park, however, I noticed an old food cart on the sidewalk, operated by an elderly white man. I found out that Gus had been shaving ice in the park for the last sixty-five years, watching as it went from a peaceful gathering space for the neighborhood to one mired in drugs and gang violence. I found out later, though, that all the gangs had formed a truce to protect Gus; no one was allowed to hurt him.

  I regaled Gus with stories of my journey as he scraped up some shaved ice into a paper cone for me. As I enjoyed my afternoon treat, it was his turn to regale me, not with stories, but with wisdom. “Never give up, Leon. Sometimes in life, no matter what happens, we have to just keep going.”

  I headed off into the park only to find that many of the people inside were homeless, sitting next to large bundles of blankets and bags filled with their only belongings. I watched a man walk in from the street, and I felt compelled to talk with him. He was a stocky African-American man with an open, friendly face. He walked calmly towards me, as though he were just on an early evening stroll.

  “Can I bore you with a story?” I began.

  The man stopped and smiled, “Sure.”

  I gave him the song and dance that we all know by now: journey around the world, Kindness One, no money, no food, no gas, no place to stay for the night. And then I came to my punch line, “Can I live in your house tonight?”

  Can I live in your house tonight! What are you thinking, man?

  His response was not what I was expecting. He smiled softly at me as he explained, “Unfortunately I don’t have a house. I’m homeless right now.”

  He continued, “But if I did, you’d be more than welcome there, as I’ve always opened my doors to strangers in the past. I live outside right now—in fact just a few feet from where we’re standing, right over there.”

  He pointed to a small courtyard beyond the park. I didn’t know what to say. I honestly hadn’t expected his response. I found out his name was Tony, and to be honest, Tony didn’t look homeless. He looked like a hard-working man walking home after a long day on the job.

  I finally managed to reply, “You seem like someone with a very kind heart.”

  “So I’ve been told,” he laughed. “I’ve always been kindhearted. I was raised that way.”

  He paused for a moment, before offering sheepishly, “If you need a place to stay though, you’re more than welcome to stay with us.”

  I realized that he meant joining him and his friends on the streets. I’ll admit—a part of me was afraid, and another part of me was concerned that I would be taking from people who had so little, but there was something about Tony’s offer that made me feel like he really wanted to help. I sensed that he wanted the opportunity to give. And I was learning just how good that could feel.

  I smiled, my hand falling upon my heart, “Well, if your friends are willing to have me, and you’re willing to have me, then I would be grateful to stay with you.”

  “We’d appreciate that,” he nodded as though he had been waiting all day for me to show up. “We’d enjoy it.”

  We walked over to his camp, where four other people were already hanging out, including Tony’s good friend Richard. They seemed slightly surprised by my entrance, but as we sat down and began to chat, everyone started to relax into the time-old tradition of storytelling.

  Tony shared how his life had brought him to the park. I don’t know why some win in the lottery of fate while others are constantly dealt a rough hand, but Tony seemed to be a good man who had been through a bad life. After his father died when he was eight, his mother began drinking. Years of poverty and trauma, pain, and street life ensued. Tony had gotten himself into his fair share of trouble, but he had also tried time and time again to get himself out of it.

  I looked around at the other men as they nodded somberly at Tony’s story. I knew that these tales were far too common. Lives that were forever set on the wrong course before the people involved could alter their own destinies. Their dreams had been dimmed so long ago that they barely remembered what they were in the first place.

  Tony and I started talking about helping others. “Why did you help me today?” I asked. “I mean giving me a place to stay, inviting me here with your friends.”

  He shrugged his shoulders and replied, “It’s just a way of giving back. That’s my philosophy on life—giving is always good. Much better to give than receive. That’s how I’ve always felt.”

  He laughed quietly, “Maybe that’s why I’m poor.”

  Later, Tony would give me some of the new clean clothes he had received at a shelter because he was worried that I wouldn’t have enough for my journey. I didn’t know what to say then, and I’m still not too sure I know what to say now. The small moments, the small acts, they break the heart wide open.

  As most of Tony’s friends dispersed for the night, I couldn’t quite believe that I was about to sleep on the streets of Pittsburgh. Gus, the wise ice shaver, had told me that this park was one of the most dangerous places in town, and I was sleeping on its sidewalk. But, for some reason, I felt safe with Tony. Like Willy in Colorado, I had met a friend, one I hoped to keep for a long time. Tony gave me some of the hamburgers another friend had given him for dinner, offering me what little food he had. As we ate, I wondered what Tony’s dream had been. When he was a young boy, before his father died, before he found himself here in this park, what had he hoped to become?

  We prepared our “beds,” using cardboard and some old tattered blankets. Tony suggested that I sleep with my bag underneath my head so “it didn’t walk off in the middle of the night.” Amazingly, I managed to fall into a fitful sleep—that is, until I heard Richard screaming. You remember that part, right? The little incident at the beginning of this story that made me ask, “Why on earth am I doing this, again?”

  Tony got up, a
nd put his arm around his friend, which calmed him down. He offered him a place to sit on his makeshift bed, and Richard was able to shake off his fear of the strange man lurking in some other part of the park. Tony reassured me in the dark, “Don’t worry. Stuff like that happens all the time.” That really didn’t make me feel better, but somehow I knew this man would look after me.

  I know that sometimes home is just a temporary space, the small little nook we carve out between where we’ve been and where we’re going, and in that place, we create family. We have no choice but to create family. In many ways, I felt more connected to Tony than I did to those I knew and loved. Suddenly, the big deal, the great project, whatever insignificant thing I thought was important faded away. In that moment, the only thing that mattered was my connection with this human being. In the morning, I found out just how right my instinct was.

  “Did you get any sleep?” I asked as I folded up my bed.

  “I slept okay. Just trying to keep those bugs off you.”

  Those bugs off me?

  All throughout the night, while I snored dutifully away, Tony had been picking the bugs off of me, trying to keep me safe and comfortable.

  Unlike being a cowboy, I have never dreamed of being homeless. I doubt anybody has. But I always had preconceived ideas about what it meant. Primarily that you had to be a drug addict or mentally ill. I wanted to deny the idea that a good, honest man could find his way down the rabbit hole, just through poor luck and bad decisions.

  The night before, Tony had told me how he had tried to go to school at least six different times over the years. When I asked what he had wanted to study, he laughed, “Anything that would give me a better life.”

  But then he stopped, truth rising up out of his easy reply, “I’ve always wanted to cook.”