I AM WAITING onboard an almost-empty airplane. We were loaded up, ready to go, passengers seated, carry-on luggage stowed, safety demo complete, when something happened.

I AM STANDING in the galley of a Japan Airlines 787 after the dinner service on this late-night flight bound for Osaka, Japan. Four flight attendants are gathered around me and we are talking flight attendant talk, the usual questions and answers.

I AM STANDING at the open door of my airplane, looking at three sheets of stickers a ramper, the Delta employee who loads bags in the cargo hold, has given me.

I AM SITTING next to a passenger on my MD-88, where the mid flight attendant jumpseat is actually the third seat in a row of passenger seats. Most flight attendants hate to sit here, feeling obligated to talk to passengers who are seated next to them, but I like this seat.

I AM STARING out the window of the sniper’s nest, the vantage point of assassin Lee Harvey Oswald. On that fateful day, November 22, 1963, he aimed his rifle at a man sitting in a car driving past on the street below and shook the world to its very core.

I AM PARTICIPATING in a Habitat for Humanity build in southern India, 3 hours’ drive from Mumbai, in a village called Nagewadi, near a river in a lush jungle. No electricity here, no running water, no paved roads.

I AM WATCHING my luggage circle around the baggage carousel in the Dubai airport with shock and dismay. The handle is partially extended and will not retract, the wheels are skewed and broken, the fabric is torn, my clothes visible through the rip. Delta has destroyed my bag.

I AM CHATTING with a man who is sitting directly across from my jumpseat. He’s older, gentlemanly, speaking in a slow, southern drawl. He asks the usual questions. How long have I been a flight attendant? Where do I fly? How many flights have I flown today?