The mid-1960s were heady times in rock and roll, attracting a pantheon of photographers who sometimes became as noteworthy as the talent they were following. One of the first was English photographer Barrie Wentzell. “We were out there discovering bands,” he says of the days when he worked as chief photographer for Melody Maker, an influential British music magazine that predated Rolling Stone. “Nobody was really famous, apart from the Beatles, and even they were very sweet.”

Silverton, Australia, a lonely, outback outpost 335 miles northeast of Adelaide, isn’t much to look at - a hotel and bar, three art galleries, a tea room and surprise, surprise, the world’s only Mad Max Museum. It’s hot, humid and I’m surrounded by hundreds of fat, hungry flies as I make my way across the town's dusty main street. Why the hell am I here? And then I remember. I’m here on a pilgrimage because of my love for Mad Max movies.

Slightly inebriated from the champagne she consumed the night before , Priscilla Tempest, the newly installed Press and Public Relations Officer at London's prestigious Savoy Hotel scrambled up to the seventh floor. She stands astride as the lifeless body of international arms dealer Amir Abrahim is wheeled out of suite 705.

Ronda is a white village, so called because of its whitewashed houses, in the Andalusian mountains 56 miles north of Malaga and the Costa del Sol. Thousands of tourists visit it every year drawn by the magnificent scenery, the architecture and the quaint cobbled streets. I was drawn by the violence. I’m a history buff and I knew that Ronda had always been a battleground. I figured that if the Phoenicians and the Visigoths, not to mention the Romans and the Moors, all passed through these parts, then Ronda's turbulent past couldn't be too far behind.

Kitschy-kan? "Yeah, kitscny-kan," the local high schooler repeated. "This place is so damn kitschy." He put down his half-consumed can of Coke and jumped off the bridge, clothes and all, into the marina below. Even at this latitude, the summer heat was driving the teen and his buddies into the water, an unusual occurrence here in Ketchikan, famous for its fishing and lately, much to the chagrin of many locals, tourists. The gang had now grown to about 12 adolescents united in their contempt of day-trippers.

I’m a grumpy tourist. I try to avoid the usual tourist haunts because well… everybody goes there and I don’t like crowds. I grit my teeth and go anyway because they’re important landmarks. Gaudi’s famous cathedral in Barcelona, La Sagrada Familia? The line-ups stretched around the block, it took hours to get in and I felt conspicuous crowding out the residents in that tiny neighborhood.

As the high-speed train whizzed through the mountains enroute to the Norwegian city of Bergen, I reflected on my Viking past. A popular ancestry app said I was 14% Scandinavian, not much I admit, but who was I to question science? I was well-aware of Bergen’s illustrious past. I knew that King Olav Kyyre or Olaf the Quiet, founded the town in 1070 as a transit point for Viking raiders and their spoils. The Vikings were traders as well as explorers and I knew that trade with the rest of the world introduced Viking society to foreign manners ands culture.

The late 1800’s and early 1900’s were a busy time for Arctic exploration. Various nations were jockeying for power and position by venturing into uncharted territories and the Arctic was no exception. Some of those early exploits are legendary. Explorers Fridtjof Nansen, Roand Amundsen, and Robert Peary became household names.