Travel Reference
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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, op-
erated 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 neigh-
borhood 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, sit-
ting 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.
