I AM EATING my crew meal in the aircraft galley behind a curtain, standing up over the metal counter. The movie is playing, the cabin quiet on this night flight to Korea. A young woman approaches and pushes aside the galley curtain. “May I help you?” asks my coworker Tom. “No. I want to talk to her,” she says pointing directly at me. I put down my fork, step outside the galley, ask how can I help her. “I think I’m having a miscarriage,” she tells me. We are somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, hours from landfall. I page for a doctor and a military corpsman responds, fresh from a rotation in OB-GYN. My passenger is in good hands. Hours later, in my hotel room in Seoul, Tandrea, a flight attendant from my crew calls me on the phone. She tearfully tells me she thinks she’s having a miscarriage. I call a cab, take her to the Yongsan Army Base emergency room, stay with her until she is given the OK to leave.

I AM SERVING beverages during the flight. A passenger in a bulkhead seat orders a Jack Daniels and Coke. He flips through the bills in a fanny pack around his waist with one hand, pulls out his money, pays for his drink and gives me a one dollar tip. He only has one arm. He is missing three limbs. He is missing both his legs and his other arm. I try not to stare.

I AM HELPING a fellow flight attendant study for her US citizenship test. Born in Slovakia under communist rule, married to an American, mother of two Americans, living in the USA for 15 years, it’s now time to become a citizen. Daniela has a little book of sample questions. When was the Constitution written? Who was president during World War I? What does “rule of law” mean? We Americans fail miserably, not having thought about such things since 8th grade civics class.

I AM RETURNING from dinner, walking along a sidewalk in Naples, Italy, when two men zooming by on a Vespa motor scooter reach out and grab the purse off my shoulder. Holding tightly on to my bag, I am dragged into the street. I let go as they speed away, the thief sitting on the back of the Vespa looking over his shoulder at me, sprawled in the street, traffic approaching. My dinner companions pull me up to the curb, my arm bleeding, a look of surprise on my face.

I AM INHALING the scent of Tiger Balm, my nose filled with the pungent smell of camphor and menthol as I walk down the jetway to my airplane. It is filled with 500 Vietnamese, Cambodian and Laotian refugees. “Boat people” they are called, as many of them escaped the war in leaky, rickety boats, sailing anywhere just to get out and get away. If they survived the boat ride, they ended up living in refugee camps all over Southeast Asia, waiting sometimes years for someplace, any place, to go.

I AM WAITING in the gatehouse for my airplane to arrive. It is Christmas Eve and I am working, as usual. I am eating Christmas cookies a flight attendant on my crew has baked. My favorite Christmas carols are playing on my playlist, Mariah Carey singing O Holy Night soaring through my headphones. I am wearing my red uniform dress in the spirit of the holiday, a little rhinestone reindeer pin fastened to the lapel.

AM GREETING passengers at the boarding door. It is Christmastime. “Happy holidays,” I say with political correctness. One man looks at me and sneers, “Bah humbug!” “Bah humbug,” I repeat, amused. “Bah humbug? But it’s Christmas! Have you finished your Christmas shopping?” I ask.

I AM READING the predeparture paperwork for my last flight of the day. Listed are the number of passengers, boarding and departure times, name of the agent working the flight, phone number to call if we need help or supplies. Special assistance passengers are listed with names and seat numbers. I see WHCR, three passengers requiring wheelchairs, and PETC, pet in cabin, indicating a passenger is flying with their 4-pound dog. We also have an unaccompanied minor, UNMR, a child traveling alone.

I AM INTRODUCING myself to the captain of my flight. We are standing in the doorway of the cockpit before the passengers board. He is tall, lanky, confident. He is extraordinarily handsome, not just attractive but uncommonly so, and I can’t help but notice. He tells me his name is Chris McDonald. I am somewhat taken aback but continue to politely discuss the upcoming flight with him while thinking to myself, THE Chris McDonald? I know of him, but have never met him.

I AM SHOPPING in a big pet supermarket, looking at treats and toys, colorful collars, large bags of food, everything a pet owner could possibly need or want. I don’t think my dogs are spoiled or indulged as I draw the line at dressing them up in fussy little outfits, but they eat organic food, are brushed with a goat hair brush, sleep on soft beds. They drink filtered water.