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.

I AM STANDING on a quiet side street in Hiroshima, Japan. A small granite monument indicates what happened right here, 1800 feet above my head. On this very spot, on Monday, August 6, 1945 at 8:15 in the morning, the atomic bomb exploded precisely where I stand, devastating the city of Hiroshima, instantly killing 80,000 people, hundreds of thousands dying later. This plaque marks ground zero, the hypocenter.

I AM PREPARING the cabin for takeoff. Inside the lavatories are cages filled with small, brightly colored parrots. We have received special dispensation from the Federal Aviation Administration in the States to stow these birdcages in the aircraft lavs for takeoff and landing.

I AM WATCHING Day of the Dead festivities in Oaxaca, Mexico. The holiday is in full swing, welcoming the souls of the dead back to the land of the living for one night a year, to celebrate, to commemorate, to honor and remember those who are gone from our sight.

I AM LEARNING about Dia de los Muertos, a lively holiday celebrated over 5 days when the dead are thought to return to visit the living. Here in Oaxaca, Mexico, the city is resplendent with traditional decorations. Special foods are prepared and eaten. Ofrendas, offerings placed on altars, are seen everywhere with photos of the departed, honoring their lives, their favorite food and drink set out to refresh them after their long journey from the underworld.

I AM ADMIRING a henna tattoo I have gotten in Goa, a vibrant, colorful seaside town on the west coast of India. I love my tattoo. It is temporary, inked on my skin with brownish red henna, a semi-permanent vegetable dye. It will last 2 weeks if I take care of it. Don’t get it wet, don’t rub it, treat it gently and enjoy it for a fortnight.