“I know I have to go to New York,” I told him. “That’s how I’m planning to get overseas.”
“Oh wow. It would be so cool to go to New York.”
He looked back down at his skateboard, kicking it back up into his hand, “But I’ll probably just end up staying here.”
As I finished the kebab Richard had just bought me, I hoped that one day he would learn that you won’t go anywhere unless you believe in yourself. Unless you’re willing to do the work—to make the commitment, to put in the effort, to have the patience—you’ll end up stuck in the same place. Maybe that therapist was right. It wasn’t about a wedding. It was about what it takes to live your dream.
But I knew what it was like to be young and lost—to live with wanderlust and not be able to make the right decisions to indulge it. The world is filled with people who dream of being Hemingway, but more often settle for far less. And it’s not their fault. We have bills to pay and children to raise and parents to look after—and we lose sight of the quiet burning dream inside that craved something more. It was that dream that had forced me out of bed just hours before, and would push me along on the much more difficult days to come.
We finished our kebabs, and Richard walked me to Kindness One to see the infamous yellow motorbike in the flesh. I offered him a ride in the sidecar, and then it happened. The bike broke down. Again. On the first day. Richard helped me push it to the side of the road, but he could see that I was not in a good state.
“Yo, dude, your bike doesn’t look too well,” he offered.
No shit dude, I thought to myself.
As a puff of smoke leapt out of the engine, Richard gave me that universal look that says, “Well, I wish I could help you, but you’re kind of on your own. . . .”
To make matters worse it was now 8:18 p.m., and I was in danger of losing my place to stay for the night. For a moment, my outsides were calm, but then like a volcano bubbling up from below, my anxious insides began to pour out, and I had what they call in England a “wobbly,” or as Americans might know it, a meltdown.
“This can’t be happening!” I yelled, surprising Richard and myself with my outburst. “My first day, my first day!”
Sure, people stopped and looked. Sure, I kicked the curb a couple of times (or twelve). But I didn’t care. What on earth could be wrong with my bike? I was screwed. The bike wouldn’t start, and my hopes of staying somewhere for the night were fast receding with the Nevada sun.
Finally, I stopped yelling and remembered what the mechanic had told me in LA: “Remember, never ride the bike with the petcock switched off. Never!” I don’t expect that you know what a petcock is, but if you do, then you would know that petcocks are never to be turned off when riding. Never! I switched the pesky little petcock on and started the engine.
I had to rush to the house of the biggest mustache in Nevada, thanking Richard and all the passers-by who had witnessed my small moment of indiscipline. From my rearview mirror, I could see Richard watching me as I left, and I hoped that one day he would be the one riding off into the sunset.
Though most of the other houses on Maurice’s suburban street were lit up, his was pitch black, making it look like no one was home. My worst fears were realized. I had arrived 45 minutes late, and Maurice had gone to sleep. Maybe he had come to his senses and decided that inviting a random Englishman into his home wasn’t such a good idea after all.
I kept manically pressing the doorbell and considered jumping over the gate, but then I remembered this was America and most people have guns, particularly people with big moustaches (that’s my last joke, I promise). I couldn’t help but wonder what I was doing all this for. I mean, I wanted to show that the world could be kind, I wanted to be a part of its kindness, but was this really the only way I could do it? Did I always have to leave home in order to prove a point? And just what was I trying to prove, anyway? That strange men with large moustaches would open their homes to even stranger men with yellow motorbikes? Did I really need to cross the world to find that out?
“We didn’t know if you were going to make it,” Maurice called out just as I began to walk away.
Maurice was approaching his gate as I told him, “I almost didn’t.”
“Come on in, son,” he replied as we went into his house. The house was filled with people and animals and far too many details for my weary brain to keep track of. All I knew was that my first day across the world was going to end with a bed.
* * *
The next two days were spent riding farther east across the vastness of America. Kindness One was quickly becoming somewhat of a celebrity, with locals across the country buying me gas, offering me bottles of water, a quick lunch, or a kind smile before going on their way.
It seems like every day we are inundated with heartbreaking stories of war, cancer, and death. It can become easy to believe that people only know how to treat each other badly. But I don’t believe that’s our true nature. The kindness that runs through us is what’s genuine. It’s built into the smallest gestures—a “Best wishes!” or an “All right, mate!” called out from a stranger—and in the big ones, the ones that take everyone right out of their comfort zone, uniting them through love or compassion or just two strangers dropping their masks and connecting with each other for a remarkable moment.
As I drove out of Utah and into Colorado, I looked up to find a double rainbow stretching across the towering Rocky Mountain skyline. Maybe because I slightly feared what was ahead, all I could do was appreciate the present moment. I had no iPhone to distract me. No Internet to take me away from my Zen. In that moment, surrounded by nature’s extreme beauty, I realized that in this time of endless calls and texts and Insta-everything, we think we are connected. But it’s a false connectivity. What we often lose is that relationship with the deeper fiber of life. As I drove through the crisp Rockies, the summer morning expanding before me, I knew that this was the real network. This was connection.
And that’s when I saw the old English taxicab, serendipity once again gently touching me on my shoulder. What are the odds of seeing an English cab in the middle of rural Colorado? I will tell you, about infinity to one.
I drove into the nearest town, and found myself at the Chamber of Commerce. There I discovered that not only was I probably in the only town in Colorado with an English cab, but I was also probably in the only town in Colorado with a Scotsman. The lady at the Chamber of Commerce put me on the phone with Willy, who the woman clearly hoped would help me because we both had strange accents. She was right.
Within a few minutes of conversation, Willy agreed to put me up for the night. I thanked the ladies at the Chamber of Commerce and drove off to Willy’s house. And I almost made it there too, but then my left side mirror fell off. You know, the one that tells me whether there’s a car driving on my left side.
Here I was on day two, and the bike was already starting to fall apart.
Lina had asked me what would happen if the bike died, and I’d had no reply. I could still remember hers.
“Are you just never going to come home?”
“What, don’t be ridiculous,” was my insensitive reply. Yet the question still lingered: Would I ever make it back?
I guess my mirror was going to have to be broken for a while. A long while as it turned out. I put it in my backpack and drove on.
As soon as I arrived at Willy’s home, with its white shutters and flower-lined path leading up to his front door, I felt at ease. The long drive, the stress of finding a bed, the fear that I might run out of gas and not find anyone willing to help me, it all faded as Willy invited me into his backyard, which was filled with an herb garden, roses, and a small waterfall that trickled into a pond.
As we sat talking, Willy explained that he had been living in Colorado for years. Then he had what I soon realized was a natural response to my own journey: He dropped his mask
and shared his life story with me.
Willy grew up in the coal mines of Scotland. He worked there for eleven years before finally getting out of those dark and miserable tunnels. His cousin lost an arm in them, and he had once seen a man killed. When he left his home for America, he dreamed of a different life.
As he gestured to his tranquil backyard, he said, “I dreamt of this.”
But Willy imagined more than his yard, he dreamed of helping people.
He sat back in his chair as he explained, “You know, we get the chance to be a lot of people in life. For me, everything changed in 1984. . . .”
He paused before explaining, “You see, I went to hear Billy Graham speak, you know the famous pastor.”
“Sure,” I said, having heard of Billy Graham long before coming to America.
“I guess, before that day, I had always felt a bit lost. I mean, I would go to work, I raised my children, but I wasn’t really living the life I thought I should be. Does that make sense?”
I nodded. Some people call it a rut. I call it one of life’s greatest tragedies. But Willy had found his way out of that rut just as surely as he had found his way out of the mines.
Willy continued, “After I heard Reverend Graham, I just, well, I had this feeling like I knew why I was sent here. I was here to help people.”
I found out that after that day, he started working with the homeless, and then he found himself at a suicide hotline. And now he worked with the elderly. He smiled softly as he shared with me, “My mother used to say, ‘We all can find ourselves disconnected from love.’”
We can. And sometimes all it takes is that friendly Scottish voice on the other end of the line or sitting across from us to make us feel connected again. He told me how his sons now lived in England, and we both talked about how hard it was to leave behind those we loved. I understood that longing. I had felt it as I went to bed on Maurice’s futon the night before, only six hours away (at least that’s how long the trip took on good old Kindness One)—and yet so far—from home. Though I had met many great people already on this journey, I realized that in Willy, I was meeting a friend.
Willy’s wife, Chery soon came home, and he told me that it was the ninety-sixth birthday of one of his friends, Kay.
He smiled sadly, “If we don’t bring her cake, I’m afraid no one else will.”
As Chery bought a cake for Kay, my new Scottish friend told me how his son was getting married that summer. But as I soon found out, they were not going to be able to attend. The wedding was going to be in the UK, and Willy and Chery could not afford the price of the airline tickets.
Willy’s mouth was smiling, but his eyes glistened with an unspoken pain as he said tightly, “Leave it to them to pick the most expensive time of year.”
“You’re not going to be able to go?” I asked, heartbroken for this kind man who could connect with so many strangers yet was not able to see the ones he loved most.
Willy didn’t say anything at first but then admitted, “We just can’t afford it.”
He added with a touch of Scottish pride, “Besides folks need us here.”
I saw the sadness wash over his face. He looked at Chery, who gave him a reassuring look, a look that spoke a thousand words. All will be okay, my love.
I wondered if next to Billy Graham, the other most important moment in Willy’s life had been when he met Chery. I knew that is what I had with Lina—the meaningful glance, the loving support, the “I got you babe” that we rarely ever get elsewhere in life.
I left Kindness One in Willy’s garage and rode to Kay’s in the back of his pickup truck. Willy let us into Kay’s house. She sat in the twilight of the afternoon without any lights on, the light of the television reflecting on her face, and then she turned, and the whole room lit up.
Everyone in the world should know a woman like Kay. At ninety-six years old, she had more energy than most people half her age. She giggled at all my jokes and kept thanking Willy and Chery for the cake. Even though we were her first birthday guests, she didn’t seem to care—she was just happy that Willy was there.
She curled into her armchair, clutching a heavy blanket to her body, and told me, “Getting old is for the young!”
She laughed at her little joke before getting more serious, “It’s true, though. You get old and suddenly everyone you know is gone, and you realize that, well, it just doesn’t last long enough.”
Willy laughed, “Well, Kay, we hope we can all make it to ninety-six.”
She winked at him, “That’s why I love this man. He makes me feel like I’m part of the human race. And not just some old leftover luggage.”
She laughed softly, reminding me of how often we toss our elders aside, forgetting to love them when they need us most. Like Willy said, people found themselves disconnected from love. And that’s what he returned to Kay.
As I was leaving I kissed Kay on the cheek.
She giggled at the gesture, “I can give you the other cheek too.”
Laughter filled the house and followed me as I sat in the back of Willy’s truck, while he drove us back to his house for the night. As a cool summer night passed by me, I began to think about the gifts I wanted to give. Sure, I had mapped out as much of my journey as I could, had gotten my visas, was working on my transatlantic passage, but the one thing I hadn’t sorted out was whom I was going to give these gifts to. And what were the gifts supposed to be, anyway? I had been waiting the last two days for inspiration to strike, and then suddenly, sitting in the back of Willy’s truck, inspiration came sailing in, or rather soared above me. A plane.
Yes, a plane. That is what I could give Willy. I could give him and Chery a trip to attend their son’s wedding. I could send them home. But more than anything, I could answer their unfulfilled dream—the one thing they wanted so badly, they were afraid to admit they even wanted it at all.
That was the trick. It was getting to know people on such a level, connecting with them in such a way that instead of thinking about me, I would pay attention to them, which might very well be the deepest connection of all. I would try to hear, between their words, what really mattered most to them. I wanted to give them a gift that would fulfill the dreams they kept silent. And I wanted to learn to listen closely enough so that I could hear it.
After we all got home, we sat down in their living room. I felt very much at home. Though there would be many strange nights in my future, where I would slip awkwardly off to bed and try not to wake anyone when I left in the morning, that wasn’t the case with Willy.
“It must be difficult being so far away from your sons,” I began, gearing up for my big surprise.
“Yeah it’s been quite a while since I’ve seen them,” Willy told me wistfully.
Chery interrupted, clearly knowing what Willy wouldn’t say, “Oh, he misses them every day. No matter how old they are, you always feel like a part of you is missing when they’re gone.”
I nodded, “Well, that’s actually why I wanted to talk with you. Because, well, first of all I want to thank you both for letting me stay in your house, introducing me to Kay. It’s all been an amazing act of kindness.”
They smiled at me, unsure of how to respond.
I forged ahead, explaining, “But for me it’s not just about the kindness you’ve shown me, it’s about the kindness that clearly lives everywhere in your life. With your families and each other and the people you help. I know you’ve given something to me without expecting anything in return. It seems that’s just the way you live your life. Which is very rare. But I’d like to offer you something in return.”
I paused for a moment as I prepared to tell them, “I want to pay for you to go to your son’s wedding.”
After years of offering a sense of family to those who were disconnected from their own, it was time for Willy to see his real family. Willy’s face went whit
e, and I could see as the tears filled his eyes, that this was that one thing, that special little dream that we all keep alive even when we don’t know how we’re going to make it happen. After a moment of stunned silence all he could say was, “You’re joking?”
“I am absolutely not joking,” I replied.
“You’re serious?” Willy asked with a straight poker face.
“I am very serious.”
His mouth began to quiver, this strong man finally letting go of his Scottish pride to accept that generosity can go both ways. It always should.
“I’m speechless,” Willy finally replied, a smile breaking across his face. “An Englishman has made me speechless!”
“And that’s the first time a Scotsman’s ever been speechless,” I teased back.
“This is the answer to my prayers,” Willy quietly whispered, the tears beginning to flow. He gave me a big hug, and this time it was someone else who wouldn’t let go. I could feel his body shaking as the emotions overtook him. This big-hearted man was finally dropping his own mask. The one that pretended that he was okay with not seeing his son get married, the one that acted as if being of service to others could somehow replace the love he felt for his family. He finally pulled away and said, “This is what faith brings.”
I excused myself and went to my room to go to sleep. I pulled out my computer before going to bed and sent out an email. It was short and sweet, a little shot in the dark to the home I had left behind. It was to Lina, and it said the three most important words one human being can say to another, “I love you.”
Chapter Two
“All for one and one for all.”
—Alexandre Dumas
I don’t remember if it was just one particular Monday or a series of Mondays that led to the rock bottom of my life in London. All I do remember is that I was sitting there, in my oak-wood office, with my oak-wood desk. Metal bookcases spanned across one wall, and on the other hung an antique hunting painting you would expect to find in an old law office. The white walls stood out in stark contrast against the gray skies of London just beyond my windows. I blinked hard at the flashing cursor on my computer and reached out to pick up the ringing phone. And I wanted everything to change. Literally, everything.
The Kindness Diaries: One Man's Quest to Ignite Goodwill and Transform Lives Around the World Page 3