These days, the Mediterranean coasts are buzzing with people who have come from across Europe and beyond for their summer vacations. But not only there—in fact, everywhere worthy of a meaningful holiday—the mood is as high as the degrees on the thermometer.

It was also on a day under a burning sun that I was first introduced to the tourism business in my home country. Back then, my knowledge of the field was limited a priori to a few things I had picked up from travel TV shows.

My first job was as a full-time tour guide in one of Moldova’s renowned wine cellars. It was an experience from which I drew both good and bad, as I came face to face with the reality of the work. And of course, I was overworked, overused, and underpaid. There were also those tourists who expected you to be their magic genie and fulfill any of their wishes.

But there is one thing I am truly grateful for: the stories. What makes a guided tour worthwhile is the connection between people. If visitors feel good, respected, and seen as humans—not as cash cows, as is often the case in the tourism sector—they will open up to meaningful conversations.

It is for these kinds of conversations that I fell in love with my work, and the load of stories I carry in my memory is so precious to me. I still remember, for example, a Korean man who left everything behind in his homeland and was traveling across Eurasia for almost two years in his little KIA car.

Then there was a young mother who had emigrated to Germany and was raising her two daughters on her own, attending language courses and working hard to make a living for the three of them.

Some of the people I met as a tour guide left me speechless, unsure how I should react to their stories. In a conversation with a Belarusian cameraman, for example, I learned about the dire fate of many journalists and activists who were sentenced to decades in prison for protesting against Lukashenko’s dictatorship.

Another time, I guided a tour for three Palestinians—two brothers and their father—who were in Moldova for the youngest one’s university graduation ceremony. At that time, not knowing they were Palestinians, I almost made the mistake of greeting them with shalom, which could have cost me a hefty moral penalty. Nothing seemed special at first glance, but only years after that encounter did their story weigh heavily on my heart, as I could still clearly remember the pride in their voices when they talked about Palestine and the defiant look in their eyes when they faced ignorant people (including me). Perhaps I could have won their sympathy if I had spoken to them differently and, most of all, if I had shown a better understanding of their existential turmoil.

These are only a handful of stories that nurtured my soul. Many more are in my magic box. Wherever I go, I take it with me, for it contains the dearest lessons I have learned in my whole life, and I am not exaggerating. Above anything else, these stories taught me to open my eyes and my heart.