I AM DRINKING a cappuccino in the lobby lounge of the Burj Al Arab hotel in Dubai, the only 7-star hotel in the world. This is no ordinary cappuccino, however. Flakes of real 24k gold sparkle on the foam of my coffee drink. The hotel is splendid, decorated in primary colors of red, blue and yellow with gold accents. It is shaped Iike the sail of a boat, jutting up majestically from the sea. My room has two floors, the sitting room and a bathroom downstairs, the bedroom and another bathroom reached by walking up a wide, curved staircase. Both floors have huge windows overlooking the Dubai marina, the skyline of the city stretching in the distance.

I am working in the back galley of my airplane. There is always something to do even if it’s not time for a beverage or a meal service. Drawers need to be organized, carts restocked, supplies arranged, metal counters and surfaces wiped down. I try to keep things as neat and clean as possible even though it’s difficult with many flight attendants sharing the workspace and hundreds of passengers needing food, snacks, drinks perhaps multiple times depending on the length of the flight.

I AM EXPERIENCING what it's like to be blind at the Dialog Museum in Frankfurt, Germany. Interactive exhibits in the lobby test my senses before my dark tour begins. How good are my perceptions of smell, hearing, touch? I sniff an opening in a wall, listen with headphones on my ears, feel by placing my hands into a dark slot. I shake rattles, trying to count the number of stones I hear bouncing around inside. My senses are evaluated. My sense of smell- terrible. Hearing- not bad. Touch- pretty good.

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.

I 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.