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

by Logothesis, Leon

  Madness?

  Yes.

  But also our only option.

  There was only the truck driver, Hao, and myself. The three of us stood there, looking back and forth from the bike to the truck. There was no way we were going to be able to pull it off alone, so I started recruiting the porters who worked at the border, asking them for help. By now, my little one-ton(ish) bike and I had become quite famous, or rather, infamous. I think the border guards would have paid to get me out of there. I quickly gathered nine people, and we put the plan in motion.

  Our first attempt didn’t go so well. The bike tilted back and forth as the group tried to get it balanced. Already I had become known as the biggest pain in the ass this side of the Vietnamese border. As the porters shot me dirty looks trying to launch my bike into the back of the truck, I knew my time in Vietnam was running out. Finally, we found our stride, and Kindness One was bound for the nearby port.

  We had done it. I was literally carrying Kindness One into Vietnam. Now why didn’t I think of this at the beginning?

  Getting Kindess One into Vietnam should have only taken seven hours; instead, it had taken nearly seven days, but I didn’t mind. I had explored the city, staying with business executives and street cleaners, kitchen cooks and opera directors. I had avoided the tornado, and in turn, I had walked through a rainstorm of kindness. For every rough moment at the border, I had experienced the generosity of the Vietnamese people ten-fold, not to mention the incredible efforts of the American consulate.

  The next day, I arrived at the port and saw the ship that would take Kindness One across the vast blue ocean that separated us from North America and our destination of Vancouver, Canada. I stepped on the ship and looked out at the city. I was going home.

  * * *

  In India, I was given a copy of Gregory David Roberts’ Shantaram, a book about a man who lives mired in the darker side of Bombay. I was lying in my bunk on the cargo ship when I read the first paragraph (and, admittedly, the only part I read): “It took me a long time and most of the world to learn what I know about love and fate and the choices we make, but the heart of it came to me in an instant . . . that freedom is a universe of possibility.”

  I got up and walked outside for some fresh air. A cool breeze lapped in across the ocean as I pulled my jacket tighter. No matter how hard some of the days on the road had been, no matter how painful it was to see the lives of those who had much less, no matter how I might have longed for home or wished I could have done better, done more, been more, I knew that this journey had been born of that freedom. The freedom to kiss my girlfriend good-bye, get on Kindness One, and drive across the world. I knew that not everyone lives in the same freedom, but maybe it isn’t just a matter of having enough resources or time or effort or talent. Maybe it’s just realizing that freedom is ours for the taking. As is possibility. As is living your dream.

  Nineteen days later, I walked off the ship into the Vancouver port and was quickly reminded of another quote: “The most dangerous moment comes with victory in sight.”

  Napoleon said that, and he knew about this sort of thing. As the frigid air of a Canadian winter hit me in the face, I realized that while victory might have been in sight, it wasn’t yet mine. Because I quickly realized that Canada is not warm.

  You see, I may have left Los Angeles during the summer months and followed the sun around the world, but I had returned to North America in the winter.

  All I had was my threadbare red jacket, which I had been wearing in the summer months, and a raggedy old pullover. And to make matters worse, I had arrived during a particularly chilly cold snap. Everyone I met was talking about it, including the crew, who looked at me incredulously as I climbed on Kindness One and bid them farewell in the freezing winds. By the time I arrived in the center of the city, I was convinced that I had frostbite. I probably did have frostbite. I knew where frostbite could lead—death. And let’s face it, I hadn’t made it around the world, through Europe, the Middle East, Asia, and across three major oceans to die of frostbite in Vancouver.

  I stumbled into a restaurant, and when the owners saw me they knew something was wrong. After explaining my story, the first thing they did was place me next to a fire. The second thing they did was feed me. The third thing they did was feed me some more.

  Paul and Maureen had owned their restaurant for thirty years, but they seemed more intent to tell me about the Canadian Rockies.

  “You’ve never been?” Maureen asked me with a shocked tone as she served me another bowl of soup. I could barely speak, so I just shook my head as my shaky spoon moved to my mouth.

  “Oh, Leon! You’ve got to go,” Maureen cried in response.

  “Truly the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen,” Paul added.

  I nodded again, wondering how they could boast about cold mountain air while I was still trying to defrost from it. But boast they did. They told me about the snow-covered mountains, skiing, nature, and rogue bears.

  I must admit that I wasn’t really listening. I was eating and getting as close to the fire as I could without jumping in it.

  I explained that I would love to visit the Rockies, hoping my enthusiasm would quell them. And then I added that I was looking for a place to stay for the night.

  “Well, we have our in-laws in town,” Paul began.

  “Oh, I’m sorry hon,” Maureen seemed genuinely disappointed that they couldn’t help. “Don’t you know anyone in Vancouver?”

  At no other point on this trip had I reached out to someone I knew. I maintained my commitment to strangers, but I did know someone in Vancouver, or rather I knew of her. Lina’s 102-year-old great-grandmother lived alone in the Canadian city. When Lina found out the ship would be taking me there, she had offered to call her Nana, explaining that the centenarian would be overjoyed to have me visit. She nudged, “I mean if you’re trying to be kind, and all, why not be kind to a 102-year-old lady?”

  I had taken down the number, but only to be nice. But now, faced with going out in the blustery cold, searching for a warm home with nothing but this lightweight jacket to keep me alive, Lina’s Nana seemed like the perfect prospect. Maureen loaned me their phone, and I found out that Nora, Lina’s great-grandmother, had heard about my trip.

  “Of course you can stay, Leon,” she replied. “I was hoping you would call.”

  The only problem with going to Nora’s was that I would have to go outside again. In the cold. With no more clothes than I had before. Thankfully, it turned out her house was only twenty minutes away. I could drive twenty minutes.

  Or I thought I could drive twenty minutes. Halfway there, I had to stop. Gusts of cold air were blowing in my face, the wind chill making it feel like ten below. I stopped at a gas station and found someone kind enough to buy me some gas. Very helpful. But what was even more helpful was his offer to buy me some gloves and a full face mask!! I had been wearing a now worn-out pair of yellow gloves for most of my journey, but they were most certainly not Canadian-proof.

  I arrived at Nora’s in full face mask and winter gloves. She answered the door in a stylish red jacket and quickly ushered me in.

  “Oh dear, Leon,” she fussed. “You must be freezing.”

  She initially reminded me of Kay, Willy’s friend in Colorado, but as soon as I saw a family photo in the foyer, which included my beautiful girlfriend, she also reminded me of Lina.

  After meeting her friend John, who was also visiting her, I told Nora how happy I was to be there, and not just because she was Lina’s Nana. I told her, “It’s quite an honor to be in the presence of someone who’s lived so long.”

  “I never thought I’d live this long,” she laughed.

  John added, smiling in Nora’s direction, “I’m sticking close to her because I’ll want some of that to rub off on me.”

  “How old are you?” I asked John.

&nbs
p; “Well, I’m 88.”

  Nora winked, “He’s a spring chicken!”

  Nora was born in 1911, one year before the Titanic sank. Three years before the outbreak of World War I. When Nora was born, William Taft was the president of America. Now it was President Barack Obama. In 1911, African Americans weren’t even allowed to vote.

  Nora, John, and I began to talk about the moments from the last century. I was in awe of these two people who had seen so much history, and were still here to talk about it. We made our way all the way up to the 1960s, when we began discussing the moon landing. I was born long after that fateful day, but I still remember seeing the photos of those first steps and wondering how such a thing had occurred. The idea that man could actually be blasted into space was of course nearly miraculous, but then to imagine what Neil Armstrong must have felt in that moment—caught between the silence of the moon and the great big planet down below watching him. I asked John and Nora what that moment was like for them.

  John said, “It was something that . . . they talked about it for so long that when it finally happened, I still didn’t believe it. But when I saw the picture of them landing on the moon, I’ll tell you, it was quite an event.”

  Sometimes dreams are like that. We talk about them for a long time before they can happen. Sometimes we are the only people left who still believe that they will. And when your dream is to go to the moon. Well, that takes a lot of talking.

  I remembered The Odyssey. At the end of the journey, only Odysseus believes he will make it home. So many distractions, so many challenges, and yet he knows that one day, he will return to Ithaca.

  I imagined the odyssey that first took those three men to the moon was no different. People had been looking up at that luminous rock for thousands and thousands of years, and in 1969, the two people sitting in front of me (along with many other millions) had watched it all happen on television.

  And then we talked about my own odyssey. All the places I had visited and people I had met. I realized as I was describing my trip to Bhutan that it didn’t even feel real. It felt like a dream I had had. Not something I had actually lived.

  “And now I’m heading home,” I told them. The words just as strange as the trip I had explained.

  “Well, that’s the real adventure, isn’t it?” Nora asked.

  “Yes, it is,” I admitted, still wondering what life would be like upon my return. I told Nora and John about how much I learned from the people I had met, and then I asked Nora, “So if there is one thing you could teach me about life. What would it be?”

  She smiled gently and put her hand on my arm, “Love.”

  I wasn’t sure if that was a command, or just the whole reason for being here. Or maybe both.

  Nora had shoulder-length hair that she brushed across her head and steely blue eyes that sparkled. She seemed to read my mind as she explained, “Surround yourself with love.”

  In many ways, what the ocean was to Odysseus, love had been to me. I had been sailing through it this whole trip. Rocked by it at some points, but carried by it for most of the journey. John offered me a heavy jacket he had in his truck. After feeding me a warm meal, Nora told me that I could sleep as much as I wanted the next day. That is love. I wondered if I could sustain the one I had back home.

  But first, it was time to go to the Rockies. I had my new warm jacket in hand, and had gotten yet another earful from John and Nora the night before about the beauty of Canada’s mountains. Again the words from Shantaram echoed in my mind, “Freedom is a universe of possibility.”

  Now if Lina had known that, just as I was so close to home, I had decided to head north, in the other direction, I am sure she would have shaken her head, and whispered, “Running.” But my whole journey had been dictated by such detours—people guiding my path for me, often diverting my itinerary as I moved from city to city. I had been sold on the fabled mountain range, so off I went to Whistler, in the Canadian Rockies.

  The full face mask. The new coat. The new gloves. Unfortunately, they were all very nice accessories, but not very helpful ones. The ride up to Whistler was extraordinarily beautiful but absolute hell for my face and brain, which was close to a critical malfunction. After a few hours, I finally reached the famed mountains, my lips practically frozen together. I needed to find a place to stay. I left Kindness One, hoping it wouldn’t freeze to death while I searched for warmth. So far Kindness One had never had to deal with the cold.

  I asked the many tourists who populated the ski resort at that time of year for a place to stay, but it appeared there was no room for me. I finally decided to try a hotel. I had found that it was at the moment when I was closest to giving up, that I usually found my next miracle. I was getting used to this rodeo by now.

  After recounting my journey across earth, the hotel manager offered me a room for the night. And not just any room. I was living in luxury for the day. I had my own fire, my own TV, my own hot running water. I don’t think I had slept better the whole journey. Comfortable beds. Clean sheets. Peace and quiet. I dreamed of my bed back home. I thought of Odysseus returning home to his love, to the life he had left behind. I wondered if my own life had changed much. Would I be going back to the same place? Would I be the same man? Or would I be a stranger in my own home?

  The next morning, I took a walk around the village. Everyone had been right. The place was gorgeous. High mountains topped with snow, the crisp and brilliant air of a beautiful day—even the sun shone across the snowy landscape, a bright kaleidoscope of white and silver reflecting back the sun’s rays. Just as nature had done so many times before, it restored my faith. Much like on that first day driving to Vegas, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

  As I was walking through the Olympic village, site of the 2010 winter games, I bumped into a dog. Or should I say a dog bumped into me.

  I quickly found out from Growler’s owner, Sophie, that he was adopted from a nearby shelter.

  I sometimes say if you can’t love a human, love a dog.

  So I decided to visit the shelter in honor of the dog who made me who I am.

  I got Winston when he was only twelve weeks old. He is now twelve years old. We have a special bond, a bond that in many ways preceded my ability to truly connect with my fellow humans. Don’t get me wrong. I have always loved people, but I didn’t really know how to reach out to them, how to show them that I wasn’t afraid and that they didn’t need to be either. And then I got Winston.

  I had never loved something so unconditionally before. In fact, I have even had a couple of love interests accuse me of loving him more, but what I eventually came to realize was that Winston was teaching me how to love, period. To always see the best in people, to believe in them, to be thrilled just because they walked through the door. I heard someone once say that dogs only live for part of our lives. But we are their whole life.

  I walked into the shelter ready to meet some of the wonderful dogs whose forever homes I hoped were just around the corner. Angie was a volunteer from South Africa who worked at the shelter and completely understood my connection with our furry little friends.

  “They really have a way of creeping into our hearts, don’t they?” she asked.

  Sadly, many dogs don’t get the lives they deserve. Angie told me, “We get countless dogs that have been hit by cars or just completely abandoned. They come in like racks of bones and just in terrible shape. But we do our best to help them out.”

  Angie and I walked to the kennel. I was quickly overwhelmed by the volume of barking dogs and the unmistakable odor of animals living in close quarters. Angie introduced me to a dog named Mia, who had been tied to the back of a pickup truck and dragged. Nearly to her death.

  They had just found her a foster home that day. And they had already performed critical surgeries on her. Angie explained as we met Mia, “The thing is, we’ve had dogs that have
had to have amputations. They’ve had such traumatic previous lives. And yet they still learn to love again.”

  If only all of us could remember that lesson—that even in the darkest hours, when our dreams have been dashed or our hearts broken, we can all learn to love again. Whether it’s a person, a dog, or a dream, it’s the resiliency of love that keeps us alive.

  I knew that was what Winston had done for me. He had saved me. Maybe it wasn’t about going to a shelter to rescue a dog; maybe it was about going to a shelter to be rescued, yourself.

  I hadn’t intended to come to Whistler, and I doubt when people told me to go see the Rockies, they thought I would spend most of my day at a dog shelter.

  I explained to Angie as we walked around the kennel, “As I told you, I have a dog, Winston Churchill, and the thought of my dog being out on the streets, cold, with nowhere to sleep and no food and having you come and help him really touches me. The number of dogs and cats that you’ve helped and lives that you’ve changed are pretty inspirational.”

  Angie and I continued talking as she worked. All of my gifts thus far had been given to people, but I realized that if I could offer the shelter one thing, it would be to give their current dogs the best home possible.

  As Angie put a young puppy back in its kennel, I told her about my journey and about the gifts. She stopped what she was doing to listen as I continued, “And I want to help you too. And I think, well the way I can do that is to restock the entire facility with new beds, medicine, toys, collars, anything that the dogs need, anything that you need to make the dogs happier and to get a forever home quicker.”

  Angie locked the kennel and looked at me in shock, “Really, Leon?”

  “Really. Anything.”

  She shook her head before replying, “If dogs could talk—”

  I laughed, interrupting her, “They’d probably ask for more food.”