When I got onto the plane in Sydney, the steward asked, “Are you going home to Singapore?” “No,” I said, “I’m going to New York.” “It’s going to be a long trip,” he said. “Yes,” I said, “I’ve never gone all the way from Sydney before. I might die.” “Ha ha,” he said, and then he stopped and said, “Touch wood.” Then he patted the leather armrest.

(The leather armrests were because I was so lucky as to have had an upgrade to business class, which made all the difference, but all the difference. In business class, the seats can become beds. There are orchids in the bathrooms. You can order a mocha or a Milo. I also tried to live it up by having a gin and tonic, but it tasted like rubbing alcohol. In business class, you can also watch “Stepford Wives” and “L’auberge espagnole” and “Raising Helen” and “Citizen Kane” and the old-time favorite, “Viva Las Vegas.” And the stewardesses—isn’t there some other PC term I’m supposed to be using?—will come and say, “Would you like a meal in about fifteen minutes? Maybe some tuna carpaccio with a wasabi mayonnaise?”, and you can have that, or the foie gras with dried fig quenelles, or the pumpkin tortellini, or, good god, good yummy yummy god, even the dim sum, which was a selection of har gow and siew mai and lo mai kai. Also, when you fly business class, you get to exit the plane very quickly when you get to your destination, and then you speed through customs, because I guess they figure terrorists aren’t about to spend the big bucks on a luxury seat.)

I was chasing the sun; or was the sun chasing me? We flew westward over Australia as the sun sank into a pool of red, leaving only the horizon glowing orange. Singapore was lit up all twinkly lights in the dark, and in Frankfurt the sky began to lighten as we took to the air again. Coming toward New York, the funfair at Coney Island was clear from the sky, and boats big and little trailed white behind them in the water.

Back on land now, I feel, I don’t know, suspended, somehow. I don’t know where home is anymore.