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

by Logothesis, Leon

  Spiro was a gentler mechanic than Gianni, listening to my explanation with compassionate eyes. After I was finished, he smiled: “Let’s me look.”

  He knelt down and tinkered just as Gianni did, and finally stood back up. “Your plug sparking are badness,” he explained.

  “Can you fix them?” I asked.

  He shrugged his shoulders, “I fixing cannot do fully for you.”

  I asked him if he could fix it at all, and he said that he could do a patch-up job. A patch-up job was fine by me, as long as it was a free patch-up job.

  I walked out to where Anna, the American woman, was waiting for her car.

  “Have you worked with this mechanic before?” I asked her, explaining my dilemma. “Do you think he might do it for free?”

  “He might,” she replied. “But let me ask him.”

  Anna came back out of the shop with a big smile on her face. “He said to give him an hour!”

  Give him an hour! I would have given him a week!

  As I waited for the bike, and Anna for her car, we began to talk about my journey. Anna’s parents were also from Greece, but she had been raised in America.Though she had lived her whole life in Chicago, she felt that it was her parents’ homeland that felt most like home.

  “What about you?” she asked.

  “What about me?”

  “Where do you feel at home?”

  I laughed as I looked around the mechanic’s shop, a snapshot of Greek life. Finally, I replied, “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

  Once our respective vehicles were ready, Anna asked if I needed a place to stay for the night. As she explained, “I don’t really do this, you know. Let strangers stay with me, but I think what you’re doing is really brave.”

  Most days I didn’t feel brave. But I was happy to pretend if that meant I had a place to sleep. I followed her up to her house in the hills high above Thessaloniki. As we had dinner overlooking the sparkling city below, I told her about my journey: “I have a lot of experiences. I meet a lot of people, like you for instance, but it’s very, very draining. Very draining.”

  And then I found myself saying more than I had to most people I had met along the way. I found myself telling her about Lina, “I know she’ll still be there. Well, I guess I hope she’ll still be there. Lina said I was just running, but . . .”

  She smiled warmly from across the table, “Well, are you?”

  I finally said the words that I had wanted to say to Lina, “I don’t think that following my dreams has to be the same thing as running from reality.”

  Anna leaned back and asked, “Have you ever read The Odyssey?”

  It had been a while, but I remembered Homer’s tale of Odysseus who spent twenty years at sea, fighting to find his way home. How his wife, Penelope, rejected suitor after suitor waiting for him to return. And I remembered that there were many times on Odysseus’s journey when he wasn’t sure if home was where he really wanted to be.

  “Maybe you just need to complete your adventure,” Anna said. “To really appreciate what you have at home.”

  Anna continued, “I think we change by meeting other people. I can only imagine how much you’ve probably changed.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. As I thought about it, I realized that every time the trip had gotten too daunting, it was Lina I had called. It was our home in Los Angeles that I imagined returning to. Was I really just repeating a story that had been told so many millennia before?

  And yet here I was on the other side of the world, once again finding that wonderful connection that marked the map of my journey just as surely as any city. But what happens after Odysseus goes home? Homer failed to write about that part!

  I took a bit of the food Anna had kindly laid out for us, and told her, “I guess I’m still learning what exactly this whole trip means. I started out thinking I knew everything. Now, it’s like the more I learn, the less I actually know.”

  She laughed, “I wish I could go with you on the bike.”

  “But you can,” I told her, remembering the first day of my journey, when I realized just how possible the impossible could be. “See, that’s the idea. Everyone can do this to some extent. It’s about how we connect, not just where we connect.”

  I had begun to realize that leaving home might be the only way the world would ever make sense to me. It was by seeing how we were all alike that we would finally realize that no one person was more important than the other. And then maybe I would return with a different heart. One that understood better how to love.

  * * *

  Apart from the traffic, Istanbul is a magnificent city. I had made it through the Turkish border with my visa in place and no unnecessary hassles with the bike, arriving in the colorful city by early afternoon. I found my way to a local Turkish bazaar and tried to haggle a place to stay for the night. I was not having much luck. Most of the vendors wanted to sell me something, not help me, and as one tourist explained, “My husband wouldn’t be too happy if I brought a strange man back to our hotel room.” Well, I could understand that.

  Things were not looking good.

  But then I bumped into Mehmet. Mehmet wore aviator sunglasses and a black T-shirt, and seemed like the kind of guy who was always rushing off to an important meeting. After he heard my story, he nodded his head and quickly pulled out his cell phone. In Turkish, he had a brief conversation and then hung up. He told me to go to his cousin’s house, where I could stay for the night.

  “His name is Nasuh,” he explained. “And I think you both will become quick friends.”

  All along this trip, I had asked people to trust me. Trust me for a tank of gas or a place to eat. Trust me to stay in their house. Trust me to stay with their wives and children. But I had also learned to trust. Like with Tony in Pittsburgh or finding Filipo’s villa in Italy, I had discovered that the simple act of trust could turn into the foundation of friendship.

  I arrived at Nasuh’s house and was greeted at the door by an older Turkish man. Nasuh was a slim, stately gentleman wearing a sports coat and beige trousers. Like his cousin, he was clearly a businessman. But as I quickly found out, he was much more than that. Nasuh was responsible for saving thousands of people from natural disasters. Whenever there was such a tragedy, he would go with his team and save people trapped under rubble or mud.

  He explained to me, “We don’t do it for profit. It’s only there for saving as many lives as possible during disasters and accidents, especially in the wilderness. Also, we educate people for disasters, preparing them for emergencies and things like that.”

  Nasuh had created a massive organization with sixteen thousand volunteers. They worked for free to save people they didn’t know in countries they had never been to. He had become an expert in first-response techniques, writing books and giving lectures throughout the world.

  Nasuh sat back, sipping his tea as he explained, “We work with many large companies to support our cause, but we always need equipment. We need vehicles; we need petrol. It costs a lot of money.”

  As Nasuh told me about his mission, I realized that as much as my trip had recently been teaching me a lot about the past, Nasuh was showing me what I hoped to be my future.

  Like with Willy in Colorado, Bekim in Montenegro, Anna in Greece, I knew that I was sitting across from a friend. I shared with him, “A wise man once said to me that one of the greatest sins is to live an unlived life; you, my friend, are living a full life.”

  “That’s what I want to do always,” he replied. He thought about it for a moment, putting down his tea as he continued. “I always say to the young people, ‘You’re not here to make your mother’s and father’s dreams come true. You’re here for your own dreams—to just follow your heart, do what you want. Just go deep inside, into yourself, get to know yourself better, and follow your own path. Because you have your own
path behind you, and you have your own path in the future.’ We all have the good and bad of humanity within ourselves, and it’s up to us which one we let out.”

  As I was listening to him, I remembered Che’s story. For one magical year, Che rode around South America, meeting its people and seeing in them their ultimate goodness. What he found was that men are rarely born evil. More often, they are born hungry. They aren’t able to go out and live their dreams because they are too busy fighting for food.

  I knew I wanted to be a part of Nasuh’s work. I wanted to be a part of giving—both in small ways and also in big ones. I wanted to help him dig down into the chaos and offer people a second chance at life.

  “I hope you accept this,” I began. “I want to equip twenty-five of your volunteers who go out and save lives in disasters.”

  Nasuh looked at me, something deep inside of him speaking to something deep inside of me. Because ultimately the gifts weren’t just about the monetary offer or even their intended consequences, they carried a message and it said, “I believe in what you do. I support your dream. I connect with who you are.”

  Nasuh began to nod slowly. His voice quiet as he replied, “You left your home to find kindness, no? And you meet the world and give kindness. Loving people changes all of us, Leon. Be prepared to change.”

  The next morning, I had breakfast with Mehmet, and talked about his cousin’s work. Mehmet also worked with Nasuh and respected his cousin—not just because they were family, but because he had learned from him just how much good could be done in this world. I thanked Mehmet for his kindness and that of his cousin.

  “I feel very fortunate to have bumped into you, and I feel very fortunate that you introduced me to your cousin and that we had the chance to meet,” I told him. “I hope you know—I hope you both know—that our friendship doesn’t end here.”

  “Of course not, Leon,” Mehmet laughed. “You have family now in Turkey, too. If you need anything, anything at all, you promise me, you let me know. We are now the same, we are, uh, we are like brothers.”

  As I drove off on Kindness One, I kind of felt like Odysseus setting sail once again. I realized that it was so easy for me to connect to these friends I had met along the way. After one day, it was like I had known them forever. But what about the people I had known forever? Could I stay connected once I was home? Or was Lina right? Was I just running from relationships that felt the most permanent?

  Chapter Seven

  “What this world needs is a new kind of army—the army of the kind.”

  —Cleveland Amory

  I lay down in the back of the Bulgarian truck driver’s cab—or what Mihali called “home”—trying to find a comfortable position to sleep. I had met Mihali at a truck stop, and he had offered me a place to stay for the night, in the not-so-large bed of the truck that he used to transport lumber across Europe.

  Mihali had kindly cooked me dinner and given me a place to rest, even if it was next to a large, snoring Bulgarian. But more than that, Mihali had offered me the opportunity to make an important detour on my journey.

  We had been having tea before retiring to his truck, when he told me about the city of Ephesus: “It is most beautiful city, friend. City of all faiths. You will be different man for visit city.”

  I had become fluent by now in broken English, and from Mihali’s description, it sounded like a trip to Ephesus would be a perfect farewell to Turkey. Even though it was a few hundred miles off course.

  The ancient city of Ephesus is located in southern Turkey and was once home to the apostle Paul. Historians believe that most of his writings, including those that later became the book of Acts in the New Testament, were written in Ephesus. It wasn’t just the religious story that appealed to me, however. As Mihali spoke, I thought back to when I was very young and learned the stories of Paul and the Apostles in Sunday school. I still remembered those words from Paul: “So these three things remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.”

  In many ways, it was that sentiment that was driving me east through the ancient lands of our ancestors—Christian, Muslim, Jewish—to experience the birthplaces of so many of the world’s major religions. I wouldn’t call myself a religious man, but I have come to believe in spirit, and I believe that spirit is often communicated through the mouths of men and women, of people moved by a desire to touch others, to remind us that we are whole and loved.

  As Mihali had explained over tea, “Yes, friend. Ephesus very beautiful city, but more beautiful, Ephesus is city of God.”

  How could I say no to the City of God?

  In the morning, I siphoned off some gas from Mihali’s stash (with his permission, of course) and was on my way to Ephesus. Several hours later, I walked up to the ancient site where Paul himself once stood, where he shared his experience of Christ with the ancient Greeks who once inhabited this land. But as I quickly found out, if I wanted to see the UNESCO World Heritage Site of Ephesus, I needed more than faith, hope, and love. I also needed cash. All four quickly arrived in the form of a Dutch couple who offered to buy my ticket. I would like to say I convinced them, but I believe it was another case of the charm of Kindness One.

  The temple of Artemis was a renowned structure even before Paul arrived to preach the Gospel of Christ. Standing there, I was truly taken aback by the grandeur of this historical marvel built over two thousand years ago. I walked through the broken ruins, and I could feel again those lives that had passed through it. So many lives. So many stories. So many wonderful acts of goodness and hope, pain and betrayal. And in that moment, it was as though history had stopped, as though past and present were one and the same. We have been here for so long, I thought, and yet we barely get the chance to be here at all. In a matter of years, I would no longer be walking through this world. Someone else’s footsteps would replace mine, just as I now walked in those of others.

  I stepped into the old library, where Paul himself once sat, writing the letters that would later become Acts. I breathed in the musty air, feeling connected to this spirit from long ago. As I imagined Paul writing those words—“But the greatest of these is love”—I could feel his footprints below mine, two thousand years later, his words still lingering amid the ruins.

  I continued my tour and ended up at the amphitheater where Paul gave his sermons of peace and kindness, and where he was eventually arrested and sentenced to death. He later escaped the city of Ephesus, which he had made his home and the center of his congregation.

  Ultimately it was Paul’s message of love that led him to be punished by the powerful Ephesians. That message had earned him many enemies. Throughout history, too many people have been killed because they rankled the powerful by asking that we love one another. But for most of us, love is all any of us really has. It is our source of nourishment and our source of energy. It warms us when the nights grow cold, and when we are faced with fear. When we are walking into territories unknown, it is what connects us to each other, despite which nation we might call home, despite which religion we practice or which beliefs we hold dear.

  After leaving the ruins of Ephesus I walked around town and was met with the kindness and generosity that seemed to flow from the Turkish people. Not that I didn’t suffer any rejection, but it didn’t take me long to meet Menekse, a local woman who invited me to have dinner with her and her husband.

  It is amazing how modern culture has come to unite us. Even in a small town in Turkey, Menekse wore American blue jeans and an Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt. First, we went to a local tea shop, where a group of older men sat and smoked hookahs, while younger men and women worked on their laptops or texted on their phones.

  As we waited for her husband, I told Menekse where I was off to next, explaining that I had all my visas in place for Iran and Pakistan.

  She interrupted me, “You’re going to go on your bike?”

  “Yes,�
�� I answered rather sheepishly, seeing the concern on her face.

  She took her cup of tea in hand, “I don’t think it’s secure going by bike at the moment . . . to those places.”

  Menekse paused for a moment, as though deciding how best to word her thoughts, “It was a bit warm last month . . . over there.”

  Before I left on my journey, I had plotted my route, deciding which countries I would see, acquiring the necessary visas, and determining which would be the fastest route across the world. That route included passing through Iran and right into Pakistan. Bold, yes. Daring, sure. But impossible? I really didn’t think that would be the case. I had Kindness One to keep me safe and the kind of confidence that fuels such dreams. I imagined driving through Tehran and finding an Islamic family to guide me. I thought I would surely meet some young Pakistanis who would trade a ride on Kindness One for dinner and perhaps a night’s stay. I had been dreaming of this part of my trip since I first drew the line from Turkey to India, knowing that this was not only the fastest route, but also the most interesting one.

  I knew the trip was risky, but I also knew that this was what this journey was all about—it was about reaching out to people in even the harshest environments and discovering that beneath the politics of more powerful men, we all share the same simple dream: to be happy.

  But as Menekse lowered her voice to speak about Iran, as though to even discuss it was dangerous, I wondered if I was being foolish to think I could brazenly ride through the same country on a bright yellow motorbike. But then again, people had warned me about Pittsburgh; they had said to stay out of Kosovo; they had even advised me against Turkey, and I had been blessed by all those experiences.