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

by Logothesis, Leon

  “Well, that’s for sure,” she agreed before continuing, her eyes lighting up as spoke. “But they’d also say thank you, so I’ll do it for them. Thank you.”

  When Odysseus finally arrived home, dressed in the clothes of a beggar, no one recognized him, not even his wife, Penelope. Nope, the only one who did know it was him was his dog, Argos. Twenty years, Odysseus was gone (making my few months look like a weekend getaway), and yet when he returned, his dog was still waiting for him, wanting nothing more than to lick his face and offer his enduring love.

  As I left Whistler, I knew that I was going to my forever home, too. I had some amazing stories to tell Winston when I got there. He would be proud.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “A man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it.”

  —George A. Moore

  I drove up to the American border. I closed my eyes and breathed in deep. So many long and weary roads were behind me. So many nights, I had closed my eyes and still could see the white lines in the middle of the road as though they were painted on the inside of my eyelids. And here I was—the final frontier. Or at least the final border. And this time, I knew we would have no problems getting across. I had my green card in my pocket, the un-shredded pieces of Kindness One’s American registration papers (which had caused so much trouble in Asia), and one straight road home, right into the heart of LA.

  My little magic hunk of yellowness was nearing the end of its epic journey, as was its captain. I was functioning purely on adrenaline. Maybe I didn’t realize it until much later, but I had been functioning on adrenaline for the bulk of my trip: from riding a motorbike on narrow mountain passes, to negotiating every day for food and places to stay. As much as this journey had been sponsored by kindness, it had been powered by adrenaline.

  As I reached the US border, I was out of that neurobiological fuel. I handed the guard my papers, and after quickly looking them over, he waved me through. I drove half a mile down the road and then pulled over.

  Out of earshot of the border patrol, I jumped off Kindness One and began to shout. I had made it. I had made it across the border. I had made it across the world. I was going to make it home. I mean, sure, home was just over one thousand miles away, but that was close enough. I knelt down on American soil and kissed the ground. I had made it.

  I had my face mask, my warm winter jacket from John, and my Canadian-proof gloves, but it was still freezing. For that moment, however, even the winter chill couldn’t stop me. The same warmth that had flooded me on that day on Hollywood Boulevard flooded me again. I had left my house so many months before with only a slight sense of the dream I had wanted to fulfill. I would drive across the world on a yellow motorbike with no money for food, gas, or lodging. I would rely on the kindness of others, and would give some of those others a gift to fulfill their own dreams. And sure, yes, I did all that, but what I didn’t realize is that I was giving myself the biggest gift of all. Because though Willy and Tony and Finesse and Tchale and Nasuh and Dilip and Angie might have all received something from my journey, what I received was the ability to pay attention to their journeys, to connect to their lives. It was like that Salman Rushdie quote, “To understand just one life, you must swallow the world.”

  I got back on my bike and began my ride through the majestic beauty of northern Washington. There are moments in your life when suddenly it feels like you can look back and see how every dot was connected—how one moment led to the next, how this person led you to that experience, or how that experience led you to this person. As I drove through the mountains, I could see that fabric of time linking me back to one of those early mentors who taught me how to believe.

  Mr. Martin was a football coach at my high school, and I was an avid football player in my early days. The game was an escape from my problems at home and at school. I would get lost in the match . . . even if I only knew how to play one position.

  I had always been a goalkeeper. Now for those of you who don’t know, when the time is right, the goalkeeper can be a critical position, but for most of the game, you just stand there and wait. And wait. And wait some more. I would watch as my brother played striker, darting across the field, scoring goals and basking in the afterglow of praise and recognition.

  I had always wanted to be a striker, like my successful older brother, but “middle-child syndrome” had kept me from risking failure. And then one day something inside me snapped, and I raised my hand. I asked to play striker. I wanted to be the one to score the goals . . . and I thought I would finally get my glory.

  It didn’t quite work out that way.

  I was awful. And I never played striker again.

  Three years later, I switched schools and met Mr. Martin. Mr. Martin was a football coach not because he was paid to be one, but because he loved it. He loved the game. He knew that sports could bring out the best in us. He was a London taxi driver by profession, and I imagine he met people of all walks of life in his work. Maybe that’s what made him so compassionate. He had gotten to know so many people, he knew without ever saying much that each life has its potential—and needs someone to nurture it.

  Under his tutelage, I got up the courage to ask to play striker again. After the fifth game in which I failed to score, Mr. Martin took me aside and he said, “Do you believe in yourself? Be honest.”

  I looked down at my cleats, unsure how to respond because I was ashamed of the answer. Finally, I looked up, trying not to lock eyes with him, as I admitted quietly, “Not really.”

  He bent down so that I couldn’t avoid his stare, and he said, “That’s why you can’t score.”

  And then his voice softened to a whisper as he added, “I believe in you.”

  He walked off, and I could hear his words echoing in my soul. It was all I needed really, just that one person to unlock that part of me that feared I would never amount to much. I went out that afternoon, and I scored. That year, I went on to be the top striker for my team. Three years later, I was the top scorer for my college. And years later, I believed that I could make it around the world on nothing but kindness. Because one man’s kind words on a rainy afternoon in a sock-filled locker room had changed everything. Like Dr. Mann before him, his words might have been one of the first gifts that led to all the others. Because it took someone else to believe in me for me to believe in someone else.

  The sun was beginning to lower against the wintery sky of Washington, and still all those years later, I could hear Mr. Martin’s words: I believe in you. The night before, I had stayed with a college student in his dorm room, actually on the floor of his dorm room, where we spent a better part of the night talking about the trip that had led me there. He was so enthralled by what I had done that I asked him if he ever hoped to travel.

  “I’d like to,” Ryan started, but then he explained. “But I’m on scholarship, and I don’t know. I don’t know how I’ll ever get that chance.”

  The people of the world had given me a chance. They had unlocked the part of me that didn’t believe it could ever happen, and I realized as I drove through the deepening cold of an Oregon winter afternoon, that it was my turn to give that chance to someone else.

  That morning, as I left Ryan, I told him, “If you believe in something hard enough, I find you can do almost anything.” I felt Mr. Martin’s words ricocheting across time, forever altering the course of one young man’s life by giving him permission to dream, and now, I hoped, offering the same to another.

  That night as I drove into the town of Eugene, I could feel Los Angeles drawing closer. I managed to meet a married couple who offered to put me up for the night. Bill and Melissa had been married for sixty-three years after a chance meeting in the late 1940s.

  As we sat down that night, I asked how they had done it.

  Bill looked over at his wife, “We’re best friends.”

 
I nodded, still unsure if that were enough. “Do you have a wife, Leon?” Melissa asked, squinting toward my hand to look for a ring.

  “No,” I smiled. “I have a girlfriend who wants to be a wife, though.”

  “Ohhhh,” they said in unison.

  Melissa thought about it before answering, “You know, when you’re young, you think that it’s just about you. You think that your happiness is what matters most, but I think as you get older you realize that it’s the happiness of the people you love that will bring you the most joy.”

  I had seen that in all the relationships I had experienced on the road. I knew that giving joy brought joy, and yet something in me still balked at how to do that in my own home.

  Bill nodded at what his wife said, “Don’t worry Leon. Sometimes the success of a relationship has as much to do with how much it can handle as it does with how much you give it.”

  Melissa laughed, “I guess that makes us pretty indestructible.”

  In the morning, Bill came out to Kindness One and said, “I wish I had done what you are doing, keep traveling.”

  I laughed, “It’s not the easiest on relationships.”

  “No, I doubt it is. But if you’re with the right person, they’ll always want to see you follow your dreams.”

  I knew that to keep traveling like this meant I would have to face the road alone. If I wanted to travel the road that Bill had traversed with Melissa, I might need to stay home a bit more. I spent the next days riding across a wintery Oregon and into Northern California. My fingers were sore; my face was frozen. Even as signs began to appear announcing the miles until Los Angeles, I feared I would never make it. Never in my life had I so badly wanted to see Lina. I wanted to see Winston, and as the words subtly pounded themselves into my head, I realized that I wanted to go home.

  And then I freaked out. Like, really freaked out.

  I found myself in the early morning fog of Big Sur only 335 miles from home, and you can call it cold feet or spent nerves or whatever it might have been, but suddenly, I felt absolutely overwhelmed by the question that had plagued me this whole trip: could I go home and still live this adventure? Could I be a good partner and still connect to so many people across the world? I didn’t want to be limited by domesticity, and yet at the same time, I didn’t want to be untethered by adventure. I wanted both! I pulled over on the side of the highway, in the middle of the Redwoods. And there, right beside me, was a monastery. I guess God was feeling bold today. Now, you could say it was a sign, but I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to be a monk. Pretty sure. Okay, yes, thought about it: I’m sure.

  The monastery was for the Brotherhood of St. Francis of Assisi, patron saint of animals and lost travelers along Highway One. Even though it was early, I left Kindness One on the side of the road and walked onto their property. Down at the edge was a bubbling brook. I looked around but didn’t see anyone. I figured if ever there was a day to get arrested sneaking into a monastery, this was it.

  I sat down by the water and tried to breathe. I didn’t see the monk at first. I’m still not sure if he was there when I sat down or appeared after I did, but not five feet from me, there he was, standing at the edge of the water.

  “I’m so sorry,” I began. “I didn’t know if this was open or—”

  “It’s always open, my son,” the monk replied, echoing the man in the Indian ashram. He wasn’t much older than I was, but with his heavy beard, he looked like he could have been my father.

  “I just needed to think,” I told the monk.

  The monk sat down on a log not far from the water. “This is a good place for that. What’s on your mind?”

  I don’t suggest you open that can of worms . . .

  But he had, and as I told him about my journey, about heading home, I could see his eyes grow brighter, I could see that my story was inspiring him.

  “The world is filled with exciting places. As I am sure you have seen.”

  “I’ve seen a lot of them,” I agreed.

  “But the place we are often most needed isn’t across the world. We’re needed right here.”

  “Yeah, I’m beginning to realize that.”

  Finally, he said, “You know, we don’t always have to leave home to find adventure.”

  “Don’t we?” I asked.

  “It just depends on what you do with your time at home,” he stood up, and I began to worry that I was boring him. “My friend, this world is filled with possibility. Don’t be limited by your old ideas of it. Let yourself live the lessons you learned. Teach them to others, and you’ll find that’s probably more adventurous than anything you’ve ever done.”

  “But what does that mean?” I asked, still lost in my anxiety over the approaching 335 miles.

  The monk laughed, “I don’t know, son. You get to decide the best way to share this journey. Just remember, sometimes it’s about committing to people’s hearts as well as their dreams.”

  Bells began to ring in the distance as the monk, whose name I never caught, said, “Morning prayers.”

  He was walking away by the time I thought to say thank you.

  I began to think again about Mr. Martin and Ryan. I thought about all the people I had met along the way, who had said, “Wow, I wish I could do what you’re doing,” and I realized that this journey had to continue.

  Now, now, don’t worry. I am not about to do this again! Rather, it was time that someone else should. The journey couldn’t stop with me. It needed to continue with a new person at its lead.

  I walked out of the monastery, looking back at the quiet and peace of the monk’s life. It had its draws, but I’m afraid not enough adrenaline for this chap. I got back on my bike and continued down Highway One, driving past Hearst Castle, where I could see a zeal of zebras standing in the distance, vestiges from when William Randolph Hearst had turned his grand terrain into a nature reserve. And that’s when it hit me: I was going to give one final gift.

  I pulled over at the next gas station and asked someone for a quarter. I had an important call to make. I waited as the phone rang, hoping to hear a voice on the other end.

  “Hello?” the man answered.

  My heart soared, “Dwight?”

  Yes, Dwight, the first man to give me a tank of gas on Hollywood Boulevard, the man who had enabled me to start this entire journey. I had collected most of the names and emails and numbers of those who helped me along the way. I knew it was going to come in handy. On this one, I wasn’t wrong.

  I found my way back to Los Angeles, entering the city in a snarl of traffic, LA’s typical greeting. Dwight had agreed to meet me for coffee that afternoon, though he was reasonably confused.

  I told him that I wanted to meet up with him and give him a ride in Kindness One. I told him that he was the first person who helped me, so I wanted to thank him. What he didn’t know was that my gratitude came with a gift.

  We took a little joyride through LA. As we winded across town, fighting traffic against the hot winter weather and the constant welcome of palm trees, I was happy to hear the sounds of home. I drove us through Hollywood, down Sunset Boulevard, and up to the Griffith Park Observatory.

  For those of you who are not familiar with Los Angeles, the observatory overlooks all of the city. It stands perched at the top of one of the tallest peaks of the Hollywood Hills, a smooth white dome looking down upon all the magic and dysfunction that is my adopted city. And it felt like the perfect place to keep this journey alive.

  As Dwight and I drove up to the famed building, I did my final illegal act and drove the bike, right next to the edge of the cliff overlooking the great city of Los Angeles. We pulled over to a quiet, dirt road section. Dwight looked around, slightly confused by our destination . . . and I think a little worried.

  I explained to him as we got off the bike and found a nearby bench, “This is my favor
ite spot in the whole of LA, Dwight. I come here to think, to meditate. I guess I come here to be inspired.”

  Dwight nodded as he looked out at the city below. The truth was that I didn’t know anything about this man other than he had once been a truck driver. I asked him what he was doing now.

  “Oh,” he thought about it for a second before sitting down on the bench next to me, “I’m a student right now. Just keeping it simple, that’s all. What’s really cool is that when I first bumped into you, I was thinking, ‘Oh this guy needs some help, so I’ll just give it to him.’ It’s pretty cool to find out that it started something like this.”

  I wasn’t sure how to explain what had happened. The long nights, the days dragging Kindness One across crowded dusty roads, the trips across continents and oceans, through killing fields, border crossings, fueled by kindness, adrenaline, and the amazing connections between strangers across the world.

  Finally, I said, “It’s been absolutely epic.“

  “I’m jealous,” he replied, standing up and looking out over the edge of the cliff as he explained. “Right now, my journey has to be stagnant, you know? Certain journeys you can move, other journeys you have to stay in one place. But you? You were able to gradually move, so I’m jealous!”

  I told Dwight about the gifts, but I explained, “It wasn’t just that the gift helped to change that one person. But rather that maybe because their life was changed, they reached out and helped five people. And those five people helped five other people. And hundreds of people got to have another experience of this world because you were willing to help me.”

  Dwight tried not to smile, “All because of one tank of gas?”

  We began to laugh, but I knew that he understood as well as I did that the whole world can be changed by one tank of gas.

  Dwight sat back down, and I could tell that he was beginning to feel like he was part of this journey, that in some way, he had been with me the whole time. “Hopefully this will spread,” he offered. “People need to start looking out for one another.”