Arizona bound; we landed at McCarran International Airport outside Las Vegas. After a spirited round of self-indulgence including shows, Siegfried and Roy’s zoo and a mock sea battle outside our hotel Treasure Island, we rented a car to continue our commune with nature. We were doing it for the kids, we told ourselves, but in truth Mom and Dad needed a rest from the sensory overload of Las Vegas, too. After all, what could be more calming than looking at rock formations and fissures in the ground. We started with the granddaddy of them all, Arizona's Grand Canyon.

Glasgow is the birthplace of Charles Rennie Mackintosh, often cited as one of the world’s greatest architects. I’m an architectural buff who likes to travel, and last summer in Glasgow I combined the two passions while researching the works of 19th century Scottish architect and designer Charles Rennie Mackintosh. You may not recognize his buildings, but his chairs will be familiar: severe, high backed structures that created quite a stir in the 1900s. Personally, I’m not a fan of Mackintosh chairs but I appreciate their significance.

"Oh my God,"gushed the teenaged street vendor as my wife and I walked along Hang Dau Street in the heart of Hanoi's Old Quarter. The Old Quarter is Hanoi's original shopping district, initially comprised of 36 streets named after the good or service it provided when the area was first established centuries ago. Today, the area has expanded to more than 50 streets but Hang Dua, the Street of Shoes, still stands out.

The view from the top of Mount Roberts was outstanding. To the south, Alaska's inside passage and to the north, the tip of the Mendenhall Glacier. It was hard to believe that we had boarded the MV Amsterdam a scant two days ago.

The guidebook said 45. There were 45 museums or museo in Madrid according to Fodor's and from the look of things outside our rental apartment on Calle Mayor, it looked like we were kitty corner to one of them, the Museo de Jamon. What? A ham museum? Wrong. It turned out that the Museo de Jamon is not a museum at all but a chain of eateries that serves ham, ham and more ham.

"A Tasmanian Devil's jaw strength is about five times the strength of an American pit bull," she says. "Good for chomping through bone. If you get bitten by them you will definitely lose a finger or a toe. They get their name Devil because of their sound, not because of their demeanour", she continues."The Devil's howl is more of a high-pitched screech. When settlers arrived in Tasmania, they heard that screech in the middle of the night and thought that Tasmania was haunted by demons, banshees, and the devil."

Okay stone people, you got me. I visited Newgrange, your ancient Irish burial site and I think I hurt myself trying to figure out what your stone age society was all about. Sure, it was interesting but the squeezing and squirming through the stone, cold passageway took a toll on my back. I should have stuck to the brochure but no, I had to see for myself.

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.

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.

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.

Listen, I love Rome. I really do but now that we’re free to travel again, I have to fill you in on what to expect from the Eternal City. Masochists will love Rome. So will anybody else drawn to stress and anxiety. Don’t get me wrong, Rome has a lot of things going for it. Historical buildings, pizza, magnificent museums, pizza, stunning churches, pizza. Did I say pizza? Over nine million tourists a year visit the city and, for the most part, Rome is prepared.