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Travel is a large part of a musician's job description. It is almost never as glamorous as people think it is. It is almost always coach. And I'm almost always exhausted from performing till late the night before.

Recently I've been plagued with this recurring travel phenomenon: getting recognized.

It is not as if I don't get recognized other times but there is something peculiar about waking from a dead sleep on a transatlantic flight with drool on your chin, only to realize the two people seated next to you are staring at you.

At first, I thought maybe my head had lolled over onto my neighbor's shoulder, but it was just a Kim Nalley spotting. Here I am in all my glory, with sleep-encrusted eyes, Neosporin in my nostrils, an air purifier around my chest and an eye mask that doubles as a headband.

This recent trip to New York was no different. While trying to locate the famous Virgin Airline's electrical sockets, strategically placed somewhere under and between the seats, I got recognized by the woman seating next to me...

"You look so familiar. Like this singer I know. A jazz singer."

"Uh-huh." I humm, while trying desperately to find the plug so that I could stop facing her directly and sink back into my seat.

"Kim Nalley?"

"Yes, I am Kim Nalley."

She bursts into tears and buries her face in her tissues. I rub her back in a consoling manner and ask, "What is your name?" in an attempt to distract her from crying.

She has 2 of my CDs and tickets to my show at the Great American Music Hall in San Francisco. I tell her I'm on my way to New York for a show, and she nods rapidly. "Yes, I know. I saw it on your website."

She is going for a job interview. I wish her good luck.

I finally manage to get the plug in and turn around. Now comes the really awkward part: time to stop talking. She looks at me and says that she can't believe she is sitting next to me.

"You look so normal," she says.

I say, "No make up."

She says, "No flower in your hair."

Just seconds earlier, I was in the bathroom pondering if I looked like my headshot. I guess I don't look so glamorous on the plane. More normal.

Actually, I don't really mind being seen without my diva duds and war paint on. The part I don't like about getting recognized by my seatmates on a plane is having to be on my best behavior.

I have to admit it: I always have the worst case of flatulence on planes. I can't help it.

My guts feel like a toiletry bottle, gushing contents out during take off and sucking in and collapsing during descent. But never mind the discomfort. I had lost the safety of anonymity, and now had to suck it up. Literally. I'm seated at the window, and there are three seats to each side. Besides, I'm sitting in coach, and the line to the bathroom is perpetually 3 deep. There is no way for me to escape to the bathroom as much as I need to, which is basically constantly.

I had been a good girl so far, and was biting my teeth during the landing when my seatmate asks if I could do her a favor. She wants to call a friend and put me on the phone to say,"Hi!" I oblige and exchange a few pleasantries with an up-and-coming singer friend of hers who admires my singing. And finally she is gone. I grab my bags and haul down the aisle to the nearest ladies room outside the plane.

The large bathroom with dozens of stalls finally gives me the refuge of anonymity that I need to finally relax. I suddenly realize why some celebrities absolutely insist on only travelling first class, and sincerely hope that one day I reach the hallowed halls of being able to put first-class in my rider... and actually getting it every time.