I AM HAVING my palm and astrological chart read in Varanasi, India. A Brahmin priest, a professor of astrology at the University of Benares, is doing the honors.

I AM SITTING on the jumpseat listening to a flight attendant friend talk about a recent visit to the doctor.

I AM EATING lunch at a small table in the back of a tiny little restaurant located in an alley off the massive lively square, the Jemaa el-Fnaa, in Marrakesh, Morocco.

I AM HANDING my passport to the official seated in a cubicle behind a glass window in the airport in Paramaribo, Suriname. He dismissively flips through the pages then tells me I need to fill out an online customs form.

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.