I couldn't spot much of the dawn from where I was sitting. The sky was blue, splotched with a gelatenous cloud that stretched like cotton wool above the edge of the far wall. My breakfast table sat 25 feet from the hotel pool where three early morning swimmers, mostly German from what I could tell, flapped back and forth. A gentle draught from the wooden ceiling fan alleviated a bit of the scorching, humid day. I folded the Times of India, put the paper next to my plate, and motioned to the cafe butler.

Congratulations. It's an exit row seat. The glorious salvation from 29" pitch in SAS Punishment Class. I smile and settle in, even buckling my seatbelt to make sure no one removes me from this economy throne. I stash a book or two in the marsupial pouch in front of me and clip my iPod to my belt. No matter how bad the day was, I am determined to enjoy this flight.

Then She shows up. You know the one. Blond, her hair cropped short, she wears her make-up like a racoon. "Excuse me, sir." She is always very polite. "Would you be willing to switch seats with my boyfriend?" She points and smiles innocently to Her boyfriend a few rows up in 14E. That's right: E. It's a middle seat. He has just managed to unwedge himself from between the drunk German tourist and the photocopy salesman to look my direction with wide, imploring eyes.

"Pain?" she remarked, quite matter-of-factly considering that my face had twisted into a grimace. I think this was the only word the Thai woman knew in English. Her right leg was wrapped under my left one, and her arm had somehow had found its way to my right shoulder via my spine. I tried to smile. But ouch.

I was wrapped in a Thai massage or "nuat phaen boran" which literally means the ancient-manner massage. Over the scheduled two hours, the woman beat and kneaded every known and heretofore undiscovered muscle in my body, gradually turning me into a soupy piece of human chewing gum. I didn't even get her name.

Taipei lacks the charm of San Francisco, the beauty of Paris, and the glitz of Singapore. But beneath the formless, polluted skies, the monotonous cement buildings and the noisy road construction, there is the heartbeat of a young, independent city. Last night our Country Manager took the team to eat at AoBa, the self-described mecca for "creative Taiwanese food." The restaurant sits just a few blocks from the tallest building in the world, Taipei 101. This was an area of town where you could feel the pulse of this young country. At dinner, course after course of heavily-flavored Taiwanese and Chinese dishes paraded in front of my eyes and, after relatively few questions, into my stomach. Taiwanese food fuses together flavors from the middle and southern provinces of China and even has a hint of Japanese influence. It was delightful and put me squarely in the mood for some well-deserved rest.

Flying the friendly skies, Brian Finke began photographing flight attendants as he crisscrossed the country on Delta, JetBlue, Hawaiian, Hooters Air, Southwest, and Song airlines, before going abroad on Air France, Qantas, and British Airways. In London, he visited a flight attendant school, complete with emergency rafts and billowing smoke. Continuing east, Finke traveled Air Asia, Thai, Tiger, ANA, Japan, and Cathay Pacific. For the grand finale of his two-year trip, Finke traveled the illustrious Icelandair.

The result of this fascination is Flight Attendants, a vibrant document of those adventurous souls who choose to work at 40,000 feet. Shot before, during, and after trips, at school and at home, Finke's photographs capture the allure of this high-flying profession alongside the more quiet moments of the attendants' daily lives.

If you're on the East coast of the United States, you're fresh into your work day. On the other side of the world, in Taipei, it's already creeping into the next morning. This fact is no more evident to me now that I am sitting in my "Heavenly" bed staring at the orange glow from my bedside clock as it counts down the minutes to 3AM. Jetlag is a funny thing; the great biological reminder that I have little control over my body's sleep functions. I flop back onto my pillow and run through the events of the previous 24 hours in my head.

At the end of the day, for all their investments in technology and process, an airline is only as good as its frontline employees. Relaxing with a ginger ale and John Grisham novel in Seat 2A on a United 737 today, I got a good dose of positive customer experience. About one hour into the flight, Don, the cheery flight attendant, thrust a business card across to me. It was from the captain. "Thank you for flying United!" he had scribbled on the back, addressing me by name. "Please let me know how we can improve your experience!" On the front, the captain had underlined his e-mail address.