The Poster on the Curtains

Blank printer paper, a tube of glue, and a fat marker.

I lay the sheets out on the floor and glue them edge to edge. It turns into a long paper banner, like something you'd carry at a rally. And I write one sentence on it, in big letters. In the present tense, as if it had already happened:

"I have an international business with Neways."

Then I take some pins and tack the banner straight onto the bedroom curtains.

Every night I fall asleep looking at those letters. Every morning I open my eyes and see them again.

This was 1994, back at the very beginning of my time with Neways. I picked up the idea from some trainer — I don't remember which one anymore. He said if you hang your dream where you can see it, it starts working.

I didn't know the word "intent" yet. Hadn't heard of Zeland, who I told you about in Chapter 14. But now I understand: that's exactly what it was. Intent. I wasn't dreaming about going abroad, and I wasn't hoping for it. I was certain I'd go and build the business in other countries. I just knew it. That's all.

Right now, writing this, I'm getting goosebumps. Whether I had them back then, I don't remember.

Why the poster had to be in the bedroom, specifically, I only understood years later. Half-asleep, drifting off or just waking up, the brain shifts into alpha rhythm. Remember, I told you about this in the chapter on intent? In those minutes, whatever you see bypasses the conscious mind and goes straight into the subconscious. And the subconscious is simple in how it works: whatever lands in it has to be made real.

Back then I didn't know any of this. I just pinned up the paper and got on with my life.

About a year went by, and then the news came: Neways was opening up Korea.

I was thrilled, of course. Oh, the poster's working!

I didn't know the finer details. But I immediately started looking for a way to get there. And what was I best at? Running newspaper ads. You already know that habit of mine from Chapter 3.

So I ran an ad. I don't remember the exact wording, but there was one key word in it: looking for Koreans.

And people actually called! A few turned up right in Petersburg. One man and I either met in person or just talked on the phone — that detail's slipped my memory. But the simple fact that I'd found a Korean in Petersburg felt like half the job already done.

Nothing much came of it. But I went to Korea anyway.

The company announced its first presentation, and I went.

And I was stunned. A huge crowd showed up. The company's own president came.

It turned out the market had already been in a pre-launch phase for a long time. Their own network of distributors had grown up there, long before I showed up.

That's when I understood something simple for the first time. A country never opens up out of nowhere. First a network grows quietly. Then the volume comes. And only once the company sees that volume does it open a warehouse and an office. And here I'd thought I'd be first.

I also didn't know the Korean market is one of the strongest in the whole network marketing world.

That trip cleared up a lot for me. It was my first real work abroad. And I left without ever figuring out how to find people there.

Later, the company announced the official launch. And I went a second time.

This time I said it straight out: I want to build the business here. Someone was even ready to sign up under me.

And that's when they explained it to me: the market was already divided up among Korean leaders. It was reserved for them. A foreigner couldn't sponsor a Korean branch.

Nobody had told me that from the start.

It really got me down. The Korean path hadn't worked.

But I didn't take the poster down. It kept hanging on the bedroom curtains, just like before.

Poland was next.

By then I understood better how international Neways worked. In some countries, the company operated through representatives. A representative like that kept their own warehouse, ran the entire local network on their own computer, and paid out commissions themselves. Something like a franchise.

The business came to Poland through Robert. He lived in Prague — his warehouse and his computer were there. The Czech Republic launched through him first, then Slovakia, then Poland.

And then the news: Poland was opening, and the office was already running in Wrocław.

I had a plan right away. Drive to Wrocław, meet the Polish director, pick up materials, presentations, paper contracts. Then head back to Warsaw, because there are more people in the capital. Rent a cheap apartment for about a month, as long as my visa would allow. Run an ad in Polish: "American cosmetics company, looking for outgoing people." And start building a network.

It was a good plan. The only problem was the enormous fear sitting inside me.

I was driving a beat-up old Mercedes back then.

There was barely any internet yet, but word was going around: cars get stolen in Poland. A lot of them. It's a whole business there — steal it, resell it, strip it for parts.

I was really afraid of this. Genuinely afraid.

But I gathered my courage, got my visa, and drove.

I cross the border at night. Clear the checkpoint, pull away, pick up speed.

And I feel my right foot shaking on the gas pedal. From fear. My whole body is trembling. It feels like any second now someone will attack me, rob me, take the car.

A few minutes past the border, I find a tiny little hotel. I stop. Leaving the car on the street is terrifying, but there's no other option.

In the morning I wake up, and the first thing I do is look out the window. The car's there. Hooray! Not stolen yet.

I made it to Warsaw.

And then the fun started. No GPS back then, just a paper map and road signs. I circle around the Warsaw ring road, looking for the exit to Wrocław. I drive out of the city and see the signs aren't pointing to Wrocław. They're pointing to Poznań.

I turn around. Circle through the city again. Drive out again. And again, the signs point to Poznań.

Only on the third try did I find the road to Wrocław.

Back then, Poznań just made me mad.

Everything went fine in Wrocław. The office director met with me and handed over the materials, presentations, and contracts.

And then he did something I never expected.

A foreigner couldn't buy a mobile phone back then. I told the director honestly: I need a phone, I'll be calling people, building a network. And he bought me a phone. In his company's name.

Even now, as I tell you this, I've got goosebumps again. A stranger, a company director, just had my back — simply because he was a decent human being.

I come back to Warsaw. Everything according to plan: buy the classifieds paper, start looking for housing.

I call about a listing:

"Is your listing still available?"

"No. Not anymore."

Next one. "Not anymore." And the next.

I was speaking Russian. Maybe people got spooked hearing Russian? I don't know.

Dusk is already falling. I make a few more calls right there on the street. Then I get into the car, into the back seat, to keep calling. I take out the phone.

And I see that both side mirrors are gone.

Taken right off.

There it is. It's started. The thing I was afraid of actually happened. Small-time, ordinary theft, sure, but I'm shaking, falling apart, a new wave of fear just swallows me whole.

In a state like that, decisions don't come from your head. That's it, I'm leaving the city, finding a place to sleep anywhere, as long as it's far away. The car was already facing the way out of town. So that's the way I went.

I drive and drive and drive. I watch the signs.

Poznań.

And then it dawned on me. So that's why I kept getting swept toward Poznań those first two times! It was a sign.

Today I'd call it a sign from the Universe. Back then I didn't use words like that. I'd just read a thin little book on Simoron — a Russian self-help/"magic" practice — and I told myself, "Oh, this is Simoron helping me."

About halfway to Poznań, I found a little hotel with a tall fence and a gate. That had become my main criterion for picking a place to sleep: a fence and a gate. I'd had my fill of fear.

In the morning, the car was still there, of course. And half the road to Poznań was already behind me.

And I realized: I'm not going back to Warsaw. I'm going where the road has already led me twice.

I arrive in Poznań in the evening. Same strategy: city map, newspaper, phone calls.

It's already late, nowhere to sleep. And suddenly one agency answers in Russian:

"Come on over, we'll help you out."

I drive to the address and realize it's a residential district. An ordinary apartment building, a regular entryway.

What kind of agency operates out of an apartment building? A new wave of fear. Falling apart, shaking. But there's nothing else to do. Whatever happens, happens.

I buzz the intercom, go up. And it really is an office — just a private one, right inside an apartment.

They offer me tea. Tell me about the options. And right away drive me over to show me one.

A room in an apartment. Everything's doused in cologne. An alcoholic lives in the next room — they told me straight out. And in the kitchen there are rows of jars of pickles, fresh, just sealed up. Basically, the vodka chaser was already standing by.

I say, "I'll think about it." Even though there was nothing to think about.

And the agents didn't take offense.

"No problem at all. Now we know you, we've seen you. Tomorrow we'll find you something good. For tonight, we'll put you up at a cheap little hotel — we know people there."

And they drove me there.

The next morning I went out to the front desk with my computer. I wanted to get online, check my email. There was no Wi-Fi back then — you connected through a regular wired phone line. I was trying to explain at the desk what I needed.

And a man was standing nearby. His name was Mieczysław. He was waiting for the hotel's manager. He'd already been waiting about an hour, and the manager still hadn't shown up.

I showed up instead.

Mieczysław spoke Russian. He started helping, explained at the desk what I needed. He helped me just because — out of pure kindness. And right away there was this good, human connection between us.

Then he drove me to the store for groceries. I invited him for tea. He happily agreed.

And, of course, I opened up my computer and showed him the presentation in Polish.

Mieczysław heard the whole thing out and said:

"You know, this is interesting stuff. But I've got my own business, and I'm not going to get into this. There's a woman I know, though. If she gets interested, you'll be a huge success."

Today, here's how I see it. The good Lord was leading me. The hotel manager never showed up for his meeting, and that's exactly why the two of us ended up at that front desk at that exact hour.

The woman's name was Bożena — a name that comes from the Polish word for God.

Mieczysław told me their story. After the war, two soldiers, friends, from Ukraine I think, were heading home through Poland. Both of them ended up marrying Polish girls. Mieczysław was born into one family, Bożena into the other. They weren't blood relatives, but they grew up like brother and sister. As the children of outsiders, they got called names. They had to live through rejection. They lived through it together and stayed friends for life.

A day later, we went to visit Bożena. She had her own house.

I open the computer again and start the presentation.

Five minutes in. Bożena stops me:

"Stop, please. Tell me — what's the highest rank you've reached in your company?"

I tell her. It's a very high rank.

"And what's the biggest check you've earned so far?"

"Fifteen thousand dollars."

"All right then, go on."

And that's when it hit me: this wasn't just some woman named Bożena in front of me. Only a leader asks questions like that.

She told me afterward that she'd been the number-one top leader at a different network marketing company. In all of Poland.

It surprised me. But I wasn't afraid of her. And we kept going.

Honestly, I started the presentation too early that time. I was still a green network marketer. Bożena did know I was coming with a presentation, though, so it all worked out fine.

But if I were doing it today, I'd just talk to the person first. Ask them a few things — who they are, what their life's about. Give trust time to grow. And get to the presentation only at the very end. Or maybe not until the next day.

Remember the question from the last chapter: "How can I be of help to you?" Back then, I didn't know it yet.

Bożena said she needed to run it by someone first. She'd give me an answer in a couple of days.

That person's name was Alexander. He took a pendulum — a little weight on a string — and swung it over our product catalog. And said: the products are good for you, the energy's good.

Bożena decided to join.

But she set a condition: "Then you join my business too."

I had no intention of running a different business. So I suggested this instead: my mom would sign up under her. It was a formality, but it satisfied Bożena.

We signed the contract on a special day. There was a solar eclipse that day.

Astrologers say it's better not to sign financial agreements on days like that. And Mieczysław and I spent the morning watching the eclipse through dark film strips he'd gotten ready especially for it.

After lunch, Bożena and I drove to Wrocław. She met the director. She liked everything she saw. And signed the contract right there.

That's how Bożena became my distributor. She was already a leader.

And then Bożena became famous all across Poland. She became the number-one person in Neways Poland.

My leader. My Bożena.

She'd often go up on stage and tell the story of how we met. And she always said the same line:

"I dreamed of taking my business to Petersburg. And Petersburg came to me all by itself. Right to my own doorstep."

The room never believed her. There was no way some guy from Russia had just shown up, met a top leader completely by chance, and now she was number one.

I'd sometimes speak to her distributors too. And I started coming to Poland about once a quarter. My commissions were paid out in złoty at the Wrocław office. I'd exchange them for dollars and take them out of the country myself, by train.

This went on for about five years. Bożena, as a top leader, generated huge volume, and I made a lot of money there.

And I learned a lot from her. Feng shui, for instance. Numerology. She's an incredibly powerful, strong leader.

And I learn from everyone.

And one more thing, the most astonishing part.

After a week in Poland, I already understood everything in Polish. After two weeks, I started speaking it.

For a long time I couldn't figure out how. Then the pieces fell into place.

I was born in Obninsk, near Moscow. And when I was just a week old, they were already taking me to Poland. My dad was stationed there, in Legnica — very close to Wrocław. There was a Soviet military base there.

My mom told me later that I had a Polish nanny. She had two kids of her own and two soldiers' kids she looked after. Most likely, she wasn't speaking to me in Russian.

Polish got wired into me from the cradle. And when, many years later, I drove into Poland with my foot shaking on the gas pedal, it turns out I hadn't come to a foreign country at all. I'd come back.

To this day, when I hear Polish being spoken, I understand it with total clarity.

Now let's step back and look at the whole story.

The poster on the curtains. Korea, where nothing worked out. Poland, where fear shakes me at every step: at the border, on the ring road, at the car with no mirrors, at the entryway of an apartment building. A road that stubbornly leads to Poznań, twice. A director who buys a stranger a phone. Agents who don't give up on me. Mieczysław, who waited an hour for someone who never showed. An eclipse on a day when you're not supposed to sign anything.

And at the end of it — number one in Poland.

Bożena used to say: "Petersburg came to my own doorstep."

Except Petersburg itself doesn't go anywhere. Somebody has to bring it — somebody with a foot shaking on the gas pedal.

Lots of people helped me. But I was the one who didn't take the poster down after Korea. I was the one who crossed that border at night. When the mirrors got stripped, I was the only one who could have turned around and headed home. And I was the one who turned toward Poznań too.

Here's what I understood: intent doesn't get canceled when the first door closes. It doesn't lead you where you planned to go — it leads you where someone's waiting for you. Your job: don't take the poster down, and don't kill the engine out of fear.

What does this mean for your business?

If something hasn't worked out for you — your first country, your first leader, your first team — don't rush to take your poster down. Korea wasn't a failure. It was the road to Poland.

Fear isn't a reason to stand still. I was scared almost the entire time. My foot was shaking, but it kept pressing the gas.

Notice the signs. If the road takes you somewhere you didn't plan on — and then does it again — maybe that's exactly where you should go.

Don't rush the presentation. The person comes first, the business second. I got lucky that Bożena forgave me for it. You might not get so lucky.

Don't be afraid of people stronger than you. When a top leader asks about your rank and your check, that's not a test designed to trip you up. That's a conversation between two leaders.

And learn from everyone. From the director, from the agents, from Mieczysław, from Bożena. Every one of them taught me something.

For five years, Poland kept the money coming. Then it ended in a single day.

Robert, that same middleman from Prague, decided to take the business for himself. The company itself handed him everything — every contact, every password, every wholesaler. And he started his own company. Repackaged the product, slapped on his own labels, arranged direct shipments from America. And the entire network switched over to him in an instant.

Neways simply dissolved there.

In the fall of 2003, I came to Poland for the last time. My contract with Bożena had ended. Looks like the eclipse worked after all.

But on my way out, Bożena told me about a new company. Morinda. Robert had taken her, along with the other Polish leaders, to this company's pre-launch in Europe, and deliberately showed it in a bad light to keep hold of his people. The leaders stayed with Robert. And honestly, inside, I was glad. I didn't want to sign up under Bożena.

I got home and went straight online. Studied the comp plan. It was nothing like Neways. And I got fired up. For three months I tried the noni juice on myself, on my family, on friends. And for the first time in my entire life in network marketing, people were asking me themselves: "Give us more, we're running out."

What happened next, you already know from Chapters 15 and 18.

And ever since, here's what I keep thinking about. A network that took years to build vanished in a single day. A company that had seemed so solid got dissolved from the inside. So what is a company, really, in this business of ours? And what's left for you when it disappears?

More on that in the next chapter.