Quite rightly, people say, “It’s incredible what you see and do on your travels.” Especially since beginning to work as a Smithsonian speaker, it has been precisely that: incredible. The panoply of cities and countries I tour, plus the unfathomable experience of gazing upon the open sea . . . well, I never stop pinching myself.

Growing up in Roanoke, Virginia, the likelihood of travel was zero. The world did not extend past my back yard. Admittedly, it was a big backyard that included a field with a garden and a baseball diamond we made ourselves. We had a rickety grape arbor and flourishing chestnut trees too. In those days, kids and dogs roamed freely, and our back yard was a favorite spot for the neighborhood. Things were not dull.

But with all of that, I dreamed of travel. Every day, I gazed out my bedroom window to the hill rising above our street. Named Round Hill, it had older, fancier houses on it. When we drove across it, I could see a good deal of northwest Roanoke stretched out below. Beyond that, in the distance, lay the foothills of the Shenandoah Mountains. And beyond that lay the world.

Not unusual for the times, our family did not travel. Vacations were something that the characters in my books took. Travel was what Odysseus did. And Captain Ahab. Despite yearning, I never thought I’d get anywhere.

But I did get to travel, beginning with college, and ratcheting up hugely when I was thirty and did doctoral research in the Soviet Union. And since then, I can barely recall all of the opportunities. The child dreaming out of her window could never have fathomed it.

So now, docked at the Bermuda Royal Naval Port, with the Union Jack flapping outside my balcony and a stone fortress stretched almost eye-level in the distance, I continue to be humbled by my life of travel. Grateful, thrilled, excited, and humbled.

And yet, surprising still to me, the best part of it, believe it or not, can be the simple moments when one connects with fellow travelers. Just now, I was in the café on Deck 5, where yogurt, pastries, and fruit linger for those who don’t make official breakfast times. A fellow was standing there, puzzled, before the complex coffee machine. It has all sorts of settings (espresso, cappuccino), plus a button for hot water. Surrounding it all are different-sized cups, multiple racks for tea bags, silver dispensers for cream and milk, little plates of jams, and different sized spoons elegantly covered by linen napkins. Believe it or not, it can be confusing the first time you use it. And men, I’ve noticed, do not enjoy being confused by such things.

The staff was fully engaged in an emergency drill. That means 95% of the 500 plus personnel had donned life jackets and were positioned in the stairwells, at the life boats, and throughout the halls, checking each cabin to make sure their “practice guests” were evacuated. It’s astonishing for those of us still on the ship, going quietly about our business (as we’re told to do) to watch while they scurry through such drills. The trombone player from the band is right there with the pastry chef and the engine room specialists.

But meanwhile, this fellow was trying to figure out his tea. I was happy to help. The little honey jars he was seeking were nowhere to be found. But, hey, I’m an old hand, right? So I know where they keep things on the ships. At least, some things. Especially honey.

I reached under the counter and pulled out a jar. We split it, remarking on the absurdity of us seeking honey while these serious people are practicing to ensure they can save our lives in an emergency. A few more philosophical comments ensued, and we nodded and parted directions.

These are the moments I love best while traveling. I’ll see him on the ship several times while we cross the Atlantic to Barcelona. He and his wife probably will come to the lectures. But that brief moment of multi-layered engagement won’t be repeated. Nor will it be forgotten.

The grand, the astonishing, the historical: these are what I dreamed of as a child. These are the undeniable and priceless gifts that come from travel. But equally significant are the tiny moments—the ones that don’t go in history books or novels. Times when we can grab a door for someone with mobility difficulties, engaging in a a pleasant exchange about life while we our eyes connect. Or the moment we can find someone a spoon of honey for a steaming cup of tea.