A PILOT IS TELLING me about his job interview at Flying Tigers. A huge freight airline, we also have a tiny passenger branch, a charter for the US military. We take troops to air force bases all over the world.

I AM WATCHING a performance of the National Bunraku Theatre in Osaka, Japan. Everyone in the theatre is Japanese but me. The English translation of the storyline is softly channeling through the headset on my ears. I am enthralled.

I AM STANDING at the aircraft door. We have landed, taxiied to the gate, my door disarmed and ready to open. I wait for the gate agent to give me a thumbs up through the window, indicating the jetway is in place, the door can be safely opened, passengers can deplane.

I AM WAITING for the captain to arrive. It is the day after Thanksgiving and we are in San Diego with a fully boarded airplane. The entire crew is here except for the captain. No one knows where he is. The copilot stayed with family the night before, not at the hotel, so he hasn’t seen Rex since they arrived in San Diego yesterday.

I AM EATING dinner with Beki, a driver for a tour company in Lalibela, Ethiopia. Beki is eager to introduce me to a local dish, tibs. “You will like it,” he assures me. “It is a favorite of Westerners.

I AM SHOPPING in Itaewon, the frantic marketplace in Seoul, Korea, where the locals NEVER shop. Korean girls prefer their designer clothing authentic, are willing to pay full price.

I AM WALKING around Budapest, Hungary, admiring old, beautiful buildings that are crumbling just enough to give the city great charm and character. It is a terrific city for sightseeing on foot. A Hungarian man riding a bicycle is heading in my direction.

I HAVE SIGNED up for spa treatments in a hot spring high in the Andes mountains of Ecuador. The high-pressure jet massage sounds rather interesting, something I have never experienced before.

I AM LIVING in Jerusalem in a tiny flat on the second floor of a building near the King David Hotel. A winding stone staircase leads to apartments on three floors. The neighbor upstairs is a short sturdy blonde woman who keeps trying to set me up with Yaakov, the son of the neighbors who live next door.

I AM EATING lunch in a restaurant in New Delhi, India. The restaurant is beautifully furnished and the food is delicious. The only patrons are foreigners, and tour bus after tour bus pulls up, discharging groups of Europeans.