The Strangers Who Change You: A Memoir of Unexpected Kindness Abroad

To begin, I need to confess.
I didn't start traveling because I was brave, adventurous, or looking for something deep. I went on a trip because I felt like life was going nowhere. A bit old. It was like I had been reading the same paragraph over and over for months and still didn't get it.

It seemed like traveling would shake the snow globe.

But at some point, I realized something strange: the places were beautiful, but it was the people who kept changing me. Not friends. Not guides. People I didn't know.
People you don't know.

You probably have some of those memories too, people who came into your life for just five minutes and still live in your mind like permanent tenants.

This is a story about some of my things.
And maybe a story about yours too, if you look at it the right way.

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1. The Parisian Bank Clerk Who Made Everything Different

We didn't always get along in Paris.

I had been awake for almost 20 hours when I first arrived there. My French vocabulary was mostly limited to menu items, and I couldn't get into my hotel room until 3 PM because "c'est la règle," which I think means "good luck, buddy."

I was in a bad mood. Hungry. A little bit stinky. The trifecta.

I went into a small neighborhood bank to change money to pass the time. One of those old Parisian buildings with ceilings that were too high for their own good and frescoes that should have been in a church.

The clerk looked like she had just come from a movie set. She had a sleek bun, tiny glasses, and a look on her face that said she had seen it all and judged half of it.

She said something in French. I freaked out. I gave her my passport and a tentative smile that probably screamed "lost tourist in trouble."

I still remember what she did next, like a bookmark.

She switched to perfect English, but not the kind you learn in school. Warm. Interesting. "Is this your first time in Paris?" she asked, even though she already knew.

I nodded.

"Well," she said, leaning in a little, "be patient with the city today." When you're well-rested, Paris tastes better.

Then she drew circles around three places on a small paper map that she said tourists don't often go to. She added, "If you walk slowly, you'll see things you won't believe."

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That's all. That was the nice thing. A few minutes and a few circles on a map.

But those circles ended up changing the whole day. And the day changed the way I saw the city. Paris didn't seem to be ignoring me anymore; it seemed to be quietly giving me something.

Months later, when I told a friend about what happened, she said, "Those little things are why I still believe in strangers."
She was right.

2. The Swiss Child with a Pear

Switzerland is so beautiful that it hurts. The kind of place where every lake looks like it was edited in Photoshop and even the cows seem to be posing for pictures.

I was hiking one afternoon near a village where the houses looked like someone with a ruler had carefully arranged them. I stopped to catch my breath and look at a valley that was so green it didn't seem real.

That's when a kid, maybe six or seven years old, came over from a house nearby. Light-colored hair. The cold made my cheeks turn pink. Holding a pear that was half the size of his head.

For a moment, he looked at me. Not a sound.
Then he held the pear out with both hands.

No words. Just one pear.

I didn't know the right way to accept fruit from small Swiss strangers, but the way he looked at me made it clear that this was important. Almost holy. That's why I took it. Gave him a smile and the universal nod that people use when they don't speak the same language.

He smiled and ran away like he had finished a job.

I was there for a long time. Not because the pear was special (though it was tasty), but because it was so simple. A child saw a traveler who looked tired and decided to share what he had.

I don't remember the exact path I took that day. But I still remember the pear.

Someone who read a similar story I wrote once said, "Kids know how to be generous better than adults do." They give without thinking about it. I swear that one sentence keeps coming to mind at the strangest times.

3. The Japanese pianist and the rose on the piano

Tokyo is a sensory overload, with lights, signs, smells, colors, and sounds all fighting for space in your mind. You don't go to Tokyo; you give in to it.

But late one night, I accidentally walked into the opposite at a small bar in Shinjuku.

There was hardly room for twelve people in the bar. Not much light. There was only one baby grand piano in the corner, as if it had been put there on purpose. And there was one man sitting at it, thin and elegant, with his hands above the keys as if he were waiting for permission.

On the piano was a rose. A single red rose, with the edges wilting.

Without any warning, he started to play. Slow. Kind. A tune that sounded like steam rising from tea. Everyone stopped talking. The bartender even stopped cleaning glasses.

After the last note, I went up to him not to say something deep, but just to thank him. He bowed a little and then said that the rose belonged to a regular customer who had died a few months before. He said he kept it there every night "so she can keep listening."

Tell me that doesn't leave a mark on you.

"This is why travel ruins you," a woman who had been sitting next to me said. It shows you people who are more caring than you thought possible.

She didn't know me, but she got the moment perfectly.

4. The People You Remember Long After the Scenery Has Changed

It took me years to realize that the landmarks don't stay with you. Not the ranges of mountains. Not the art galleries. Not even the beautiful sunsets.

It's the people.

The Parisian clerk who gave her quiet advice.
The Swiss kid with his pear.
The ghostly pianist who played.

They stay in your mind long after you forget the names of the streets, the times of the trains, or the name of the hostel you stayed in.

Someone replied to something I said online once, "Travel is the only thing that teaches you how big the world is and how small kindness feels, but how deeply it lands."

That's what it is.
The kindness is small.
The effect isn't.

5. Why Kindness Is the Best Thing to Bring Home

Travel has taught me that people can be surprisingly soft. Even the ones who seem busy, tired, or stern. That softness comes out in small ways, like giving directions without being asked, sharing food, a stranger helping you read a train ticket, or a smile that makes you feel better when you're trying not to look lost.

You can take kindness with you.
Lasts a long time.
The best kind of contagious.

You don't need to buy plane tickets to see it. You don't have to speak the same language. You only need to stay open long enough for someone to give you a metaphorical pear or for you to give someone else one.

I'd love to share more stories with you if these remind you of your own experiences or make you want to write more. Come with me on a walk. Bring your own memories.
If you want to keep traveling with us, not through tours or itineraries, but through the little, everyday moments that make the world feel familiar, please subscribe.

People we don't know change us.
Sometimes in a sentence.
Sometimes in silence.
In ways that last forever.