My two months of traveling through Russia and Mongolia, ended with a short stay in Beijing, before making my way back home.

I stayed in a hostel situated in the hutongs, alleys formed by lines of siheyuan, traditional courtyard residences, relatively undisturbed by the incessant modernization. There, I was greeted by a friendly young man who worked at the hostel. He introduced himself as Lucky. During my short stay our paths crossed often and we would exchange a warm hello.

One day, not unlike the others, I said, “Hey Lucky.” He smiled and returned the greeting, but this time another employee said, “His name is not Lucky.” Suprised, I asked,” It’s not? What is it?” “Lucky” he said. “Lucky?” I responded somewhat confused. “No, Lucky, you know Sylvester Stallone, Lucky,” he said emphatically. “Rocky?” I asked.”Yes, Lucky,” I heard him say again.

The plane flying to Zanzibar had a capacity for six passengers. I walked on the tarmac with the others taking the same flight.

No seats were assigned. Our tickets indicated only the date, time of departure, and the destination. In the customary first-come, first-served world I am famiiar with, I assumed, being at the front of the line assured me a first choice of seating. Not that it mattered too much, given the size of the plane, we all had the luxury of both a window and an aisle seat.

But then the pilot arrived, a large man with ample belly. Without much of an introduction he asked us each what we weighed. Surprised by the question I nonetheless dutifully answered, as did the other awaiting passengers. After hearing our responses he pointed and added, “You, there.” “You, here.” “You, back there.”  ” You, in the front.” until we were all seated. I was placed in the back row, not the seat I would have chosen, but my preference was clearly of little priority.

We were soon skimming over the Indian Ocean. Our altitude was never high. The flight was short, but memorable, amid the African sky.