My brother and I just returned from a long trip. My honeymoon, actually. You see, a funny thing happened on my way to the altar. My fiancee dumped me the week of our wedding. Ouch, huh? But I'm an optimist. I didn't panic (well, maybe just a little). I decided to have a wedding anyway... just without a bride (highly recommended, by the way -- all the fun, no hideous bridal party dresses).

I also decided to go on a scheduled Costa Rican honeymoon with my recently divorced brother, Kurt. We canceled the flower petals on the beds, swapped champagne for beer and promised not to carry each other over any thresholds. During the trip, a strange thing happened. I realized that having my life turn upside-down might not be such a bad thing after all.

So, Kurt and I decided to extend our honeymoon. Big time. We quit our jobs, sold our homes, gave away our clothes and furniture, discarded cell phones and pagers (I think Kurt used a nine iron on his). That was early 2000. Since then we've honeymooned through nearly 60 countries in Eastern Europe, Latin America, Southeast Asia and Africa.

The result is a book called "Honeymoon With My Brother", published by St. Martin's Press. Thanks for picking up a copy and for spreading the good word.

Here's to more honeymoons and travel in 2006.

Franz Wisner

I used to cringe at the sight of trinket hustlers in foreign countries. You know the ones. The packs of loud women in native dress hawking cheap sweaters. The swarming taxi driver mobs at airports. The Oscar-quality child actors with hands out for handouts.

I used to wince. Then I heard my old high school football coach one day as I tried to avoid a mob of sellers. A bromide of his somehow crept back in my mind.

"The best defense is a good offense," the gravelly voice echoed.

Yes. Yes! Enough dodging and ducking. The hustlers are part of the whole travel experience. Embrace them. From that day on, I've learned to hate the seller-buyer war and love the bombardment.

After more than a year on the road, here's our favorite ways to throw the hustlers off their game.

Kill her with kindness

Learn how to say, "I want to buy a kiss" in the native language. It's a sure-fire way to immediately drive most saleswomen (and all salesmen) to the other side of the street. If not, you just found a potential new foreign girlfriend.

Self-bidding war

A seller hands you a pair of sunglasses and asks for $20. Tell him there is no way you'd accept anything less than $30 for such high-quality eyewear. Bid yourself up again, and he'll shake his head thinking you're crazy.

Too rich for my tastes

"Expensive" is the first word we learn in a foreign country. It's "mahal" in Indonesia, "caro" in Latin America and "pang" in Thailand. Whatever the quoted price, yell the word for expensive as if the cost pains you. The comment will inspire a torrent of explanations why the items are properly priced and suggestions where you can take your entirely erroneous opinions.

The thespian

Happy kid playing in the street. Mom sees you coming, yells to her child. Instantly the kid becomes melancholy with droopy eyes and a pouting lip as he hits you up for a donation. It's an acting scene, so take part. Bury your head in your hands and cry along. Nine times out of ten, the boy will know he's been unmasked and start to laugh.

Misdirection play

When approached by a pack of vendors who speak English, ask for directions to a far-off or obscure location. They'll argue among themselves about the best route and forget about selling you anything.

Define yourself out of a job

"Taxi, taxi. Senor, you need a ride?" Kurt's favorite response to the cab hustlers is to ask them if they are "official taxi drivers." They'll say yes and wave a bogus license or useless driving certificate. "Oh, I'm sorry," he'll then say. "We only ride with unofficial taxi drivers."

Say what?

On the beaches of Brazil, we were constantly solicited by men trying to sell sodas, umbrellas and t-shirts. "I only buy from people who think Argentina is the best soccer team in the world," I'd deadpan, spawning looks of horror from the locals. The Brazilians would do anything for a sale...anything, that is, except renounce their beloved soccer team. Note: do not try this technique with soccer hooligans.

Extensive tastes

From the salesman with everything, ask for the impossible. "Got an etch-a-sketch or pogo stick?" But careful for what you ask. Make sure it's way out there. My friend John Dawkins asked for a "falcon rug" as we crossed the border into California from Tijuana one afternoon. We jumped into John's van, laughing. Ten minutes later, a perspiring, panting salesman tapped on the window. He held a large, falcon-crested rug high above his head. Sold.

Language barrier

Learn a few words in an obscure language like, say, Czech. As the hustlers attack, repeat the words over and over. Point to yourself and chant the word "Czech" several times. Confused, they'll shift from English to Spanish to German to French trying to find common ground. After a couple minutes they'll give up in frustration and hound someone else.

Better to give

Ask and you shall receive. Someone offers you a souvenir, take it. Literally. Tell him "thank you for the free gift." He'll grab it back faster than a Christmas present exchange. One salesman, however, turned this technique against us. "I'm happy to give it to you," he said. "But I was hoping you would give me a gift in return. A gift of a few dollars." Ouch. Out-hustled by the hustlers.

Go ahead. Do it. I know the thought's crossed your mind. Probably the last time you walked into a tourist trap packed with fellow travelers holding the same copy of Fodors or Lonely Planet.

Throw the guidebooks away. Or burn them in protest. Either way, your trips will improve dramatically.

For me, the epiphany came in Ho Chi Minh City. After a long day traipsing around town, my brother and I longed for an authentic Vietnamese meal. So we plowed through our guidebook and decided on a restaurant that promised tasty local fare amid a locals-only atmosphere. We walked into the restaurant and saw 10 tables. Europeans or Americans sat at each table with their guidebooks resting on their laps or under chairs.

"That's it," I told my brother that night in the hotel. "No more guidebooks." To accentuate my point I threw our book across the room and into a wastebasket.

And our trips have never been better.

Think about it. When tourists come to Orange County, the guidebooks point them in the direction of Disneyland or the Newport Peninsula. Is this the best we have to offer? Do those places truly reflect Orange County today?

Conversely, if the tourist spent a couple minutes talking to Orange County residents they'd learn about, say, a desolate beach in Laguna, a wonderful Mexican restaurant in Santa Ana or a pristine wilderness trail in unincorporated East County. Or maybe a Vietnamese restaurant that's more authentic than our joint in Ho Chi Minh City.

Still not convinced? Here are some more reasons.

The whole concept of an "up-to-date" guidebook is impossible. Look at the date on yours. If you're lucky, it's only a year or two old. Or is it? Find a copy from 10 years prior and you'll probably find the book hasn't been re-written, just edited, tweaked and spruced up with fancy new photos.

How many people work for a guidebook? 100? 200? Even if the number were 100,000 it wouldn't be nearly enough to constantly scour every neighborhood for the latest and greatest information.

I went to Rio last December and heard about a nightclub jammed with dance-crazy Brazilians. I saw no tourists the entire night I visited. On a return trip three months later, I saw no people the entire night. The Rio revelers moved to another venue after declaring that one passé.

Of course none of this information was in the guidebooks. The only restaurants, clubs and bars they promote are the ones that have been around for years - the same types of establishments we avoid at home.

How about basic information concerning an area's main sights? The books do better here, I'll admit. The best ones throw in a decent history lesson or two along with detailed maps. Still, they often miss things like holiday schedules, hours that have been adjusted, discount days or the best times to view the "must-see" venues. Besides, all this information can be easily obtained with a quick stop to an information center or through a quick chat with a concierge.

Another reason to ditch the guidebooks is the practice of paying for print. Though the reputable publishers prohibit payola practices, hotel, tour and restaurant owners all over the world brag about buying favorable mentions. In Vietnam, a café owner told me he sent money every year to a writer so his establishment would remain in a guidebook. He was angry with his "cheap" neighbor for refusing the bribe, yet tacking up a sign that bragged about a recommendation.

Think about being forced to get all your news from books - everything from weather reports to stock prices to headlines to sport scores. Impossible, right? Yet this is precisely the rationale of travelers who cling to guidebooks as their sole source of information.

Quick aside here. One of the most popular guidebooks on the planet is Lonely Planet. It's also one of the most aptly named. I laugh every time I hear the words "Lonely Planet." If their readers travel with their heads buried in their book, of course they're going to be lonely.

Are you wavering yet? Here's what will happen if you do leave the guidebooks at home.

You'll talk to more people, many of them offering rides, meals or personal escorts in addition to recommendations. You'll feel like you're experiencing something authentic as opposed to being led through another tourist trap. You'll travel far more spontaneously, taking advantage of gifts and opportunities when they arise. You'll realize you don't need to see everything on a trip. The churches and museums will still be there the next time. You'll probably make more friends with whom you'll stay in contact long after the journey is over. You'll feel like you know a location far better than you ever did with guidebook-dominated travel.

There are whole industries that exist solely by convincing travelers that they cannot leave their homes without certain "essential services" - travel clothes, travel insurance, even travel agents in the age of Internet. The truth is you don't need any of them.

But that gets me off on a tangent. For now I'd be more than content if you left the guidebooks at home.

Quincy was having a hard time.

Maybe it was the humid, 90-degree temperatures. Or the long line of former warriors at the podium. Maybe it was just being here, on the small island in Micronesia that, for a couple weeks in 1944, exploded with some of the fiercest gun slinging in the Pacific phase of World War II.

Peleliu was essential, the generals declared. Capture the island and protect McArthur’s flank before he returned to the Philippines as promised. 50 years ago. Quincy hadn’t been back.

Quincy grabbed Joe as the ceremony rambled on. Can you get me a van, he asked, or a ride out of here? Too many memories long repressed, too much pain.

There, that’s the beach, Quincy declared. Orange Beach. Pull over. Joe followed behind as the fragile, silver-haired, old man walked to the sea. Resting on a stone, he peeled open his heart and confessed his tale.

Arthur was his best friend from Canton, Ohio, Quincy explained. They enlisted for the war to end all wars because it was the right thing to do. Arthur was athletic, Quincy bragged, and handsome.

Alive and well after the battle of Guadalcanal, they stole a bottle of Jack Daniels from a commanding officer. We’ll drink it after Peleliu, they decided. A celebration before we head home.

Arthur didn’t make it out of Peleliu, Quincy mumbled as tears dotted his shirt. Crossfire on the beach landing ended their lifetime of plans. He was a good man. He was a good man.

Slowly, Quincy pulled the Jack Daniels from his bag. The 50-year old bottle still had the original stamp and seal. Quincy rolled up his khaki pants and walked out in the knee-deep bay. He paused, opened the bottle, poured half into the ocean, took a generous swig for himself and started to cry.

Many World War II buffs come to Peleliu and the islands of Palau to inspect the vine-covered battle sites and well-preserved ruins. Children retrace the steps of father-soldiers. Wives uncover chapters of heroism previously untold. Divers inspect bombed ships and downed Japanese Zeros that now serve as homes for kaleidoscope fish and Technicolor coral.

“Respect,” says Tangie as he guides history seekers around the lush island strewn with tank shells, artillery guns and fighting caves occupied by Japanese soldiers even after their country surrendered. “That’s the most important part of the tour.”

Quincy collared Joe again at the hotel the next day. Thanks for the understanding and help, he said. He was better now. Just needed a quiet moment with an old friend.

I’ll be back to your beautiful islands, he promised. Where can I reach you, Joe? I’ll be back next year.

The box arrived one year later along with a letter from Quincy’s daughter.

My father spoke warmly of the afternoon you shared. He fought another battle that day -- a battle with lung cancer, a battle he recently lost. In his will, he left instructions for his remains to be sent to you.

You’ll know where to scatter them.

There's an army out there. Bigger than Mother Russia’s. More tenacious than Afghanistan's rebels. Noses in more countries than the old British Navy.

Lose the wheeled Samsonite, grab an equally expensive backpack by NorthFace and enlist in the People's Army of Concerned Kids -- the PACKers.

They cringe at the thought, but Packer wear is more uniform than military dress whites. Tevas or other rubber-soled sandals are the base. Add socks if you're German. Cargo pants or zip-off, GORE-TEX trousers are next. Orange and purple for the Europeans, black and blue for the Americans.

T-shirts, long and short sleeve, are obligatory. Five points if the shirt displays the logo of an obscure product or outdated television show -- Brillo pads or Starsky and Hutch, por exemplo. 10 points for advertising an organization that cares. Anything with "Save our…" or "Concerned Citizens…" will do. Bonus round for shirts promoting a remote destination inaccessible to the tour buses. “The Mystic Mayan Mines of Myanmar.”

Bo Derek cornrows and Bob Marley dreadlocks will draw silent, unenthusiastic nods of approval from the community. Rings though noses, eyelids, chins, tongues, belly buttons barely garner notice anymore. Tribal band tattoos around arms and painted mosaics on lower backs are still prevalent, though usually on the bodies of club newcomers. Indian-style tattooed hands and decorated faces like the Maoris are more cutting edge.

Packer wear is fully androgynous, with uniforms for men and women often indistinguishable. In fact, the men and women themselves are often indistinguishable.

Like officers clubs and army towns, Packers prefer to bunch together along streets, in neighborhoods and throughout club-friendly cities. Most towns will have a Packer-designated section. If you’re looking for a cheap hotel near plenty of vegan restaurants and incense stands, just show your backpack to the cab driver and you'll be whisked there. Used bookstores, Internet cafes, henna tattoo parlors, natural food carts, and discount travel agencies comprise the prototypical Packer block. Koh San Road in Bangkok or the Sultanhamet neighborhood in Istanbul are the types of places that make Packers sit back in their hammocks and go "ahhhhhh." But remember, Katmandu is the Mecca. At least one pilgrimage is necessary for exalted status.

Boot camp, or shall I say Teva camp, is the three-month, dozen-country European summer spent hopping trains with a Euro-Rail pass. Packers learn to find the best cots in hostels, wash socks with hand-soap in sinks and look forward to cold Nescafe and stale bread for breakfast. Museums and historical sights are out. They cost money. Instead, Packers learn to glean the experiences through stories of the one well-to-do comrade who can afford to go and is happy to tell all to the group while waiting for the next midnight train. "Dude, that Mona Lisa babe is the bomb."

In conventional armies, stars and bars identify rank. The Packer hierarchy is maintained through the first topic broached -- years on the road, or, more specifically, "How long you been out?"

Rookie status for three months or less. Year-outs are the equivalent of bank vice presidents. Decent title but there's plenty of them. Two years on the road and you're an Australian General, a rank bestowed to honor the concept of Aboriginal walkabouts. Two-to-five years and you're out on top. More than five years and you’re just out…out of your mind. Five-plus years and even the backpackers begin to think you should put on a tie. More than five years and you're like the man we met in Ecuador. He'd been on the road for 25 years. He gave us some great recommendations for treasured spots way, way off the beaten path (in fact, I don’t know if he remembered there was a path). Then he started talking about cities 500 miles below Antarctica. Uhhh, check please.

No $500 hammers or other over-charges in the Packer brigade. $40 for an eight-hour train ride versus $50 for a flight covering the same distance in less than an hour? No question. Hop on the bus, Gus, because time is an unlimited commodity. Kurt says Packers have alligator arms -- they have a hard time reaching their wallets.

I can't be too hard on Packers, especially because I resemble them these days. And like the Salvation Army, they fight wars every day…and sometimes win.

Iran. China. Cuba. Packers are often the first tourists into a country after travel walls have been lifted. They're the West’s initial diplomats, albeit grungy diplomats.

An old Packer once told me he received the first Visa into Bangladesh after their war of independence. Bewildered guards at the border didn't know what to do with him, so they called the new president. He didn't know what to do either, so he invited the backpacker to stay at his house for two weeks. Great story. Don't know if it's true. But I do know that as soon as a country opens up, the Packer army stakes out positions well before McDonald’s picks a mall or Starbucks a street corner.

Kudos are awarded in the Packer community for knowing the language, wearing local garb or understanding traditions. Locals appreciate the effort, partly for understanding, partly for laughs. The longhaired American who chows down a guinea pig lunch in Peru performs two valuable services. He gives Peruvians a reason to smile and allows the rest of us to skip guinea pig and eat pizza. Muchas gracias amigo.

The Packer push has led to more book exchanges, chai teas, deep tissue massages, Internet hook-ups, hemp clothing, last-minute-travel fares, natural juices and deodorant sales around the globe.

Whoops. Strike the last one, but sign me up.

Forget the stuffy museums. Or the useless Lonely Planet guidebooks.

If you really want to understand a country and its culture leave your valuables at home and join the fellow hooligan masses at a professional soccer match.

Disclaimer. During the trip, I’ve seen countless games on televisions in packed bars and live among the crazies. Yet despite the dozens of loyalists who’ve explained the subtleties and fueled the fervor, I still don’t love the game.

Sure, I enjoyed watching the U.S. women win their World Cup (or maybe it was just Brandi Chastain removing her shirt). And I remain hopeful that with millions of soccer midgets occupying every inch of grass in our country that someday we’ll be able to reach soccer’s elite status.

But, c’mon. Admit it. The game’s dull. There’s less scoring at a soccer match than at a Saudi Arabian Junior High School. And the only drama occurs after a foul, when a simple tripping turns into a Merchant and Ivory production.

So forget the game and watch the real excitement – the fans.

Soccer in Brazil is like forro, a rhythmic, colorful, fast-paced, cross-cultural and at times erotic form of dance and music. Brazil’s zydeco. The name derives from picnics thrown by Ford Motor Company plants in Brazil “for all.” It’s also a good way to describe matches in Rio’s Maracanã stadium, the world’s largest. Ice cream vendors and truck drivers, lawyers and land barons, students, vagabonds and work shirkers cram, wiggle, shout, moan, sway and pray for victory. They dance and sing like the culmination of Carnival.

Crumbling economy? Who cares. Disappearing rain forest? Don’t have the time to worry about that. Not when Brazil is playing. And heaven forbid a loss.

I had a Brazilian friend in college who locked himself in his room after a World Cup defeat. “Give me a couple days alone,” he said as I tried to coax him out for a school party. “This one is going to take a while to stomach.”

Italians are passionate about their soccer as well. It’s just a more fashionable passion. Men blend team color scarves with Armani jackets and Versace sweaters. Even the red glare road flares and fire bombs thrown on the field match the banners and flags overhead.

Kurt and I earned numerous stares at an AC Milan match. It wasn’t because we were obvious soccer novices (calling it soccer instead of football alone qualifies one) or out-of-place Americans. It was our blue jeans and gray sweatshirts. They didn’t quite fit the style palate.

Italians sang boisterously to encourage their team and waved their arms after each penalty whistle. 75,000 divas in an Italian opera.

During halftime at a match between Milan and Leeds, a young Italian enthusiast berated his English counterpart a deck below with an emotional diatribe accentuated with Momma Mia wrist waves, fingers bunched together. The Brit took a more direct approach, acting out a pulsating hip thrust that looked like a prison love scene with the Italian as his imaginary cellmate.

Verdi vs. Sid Vicious.

I think there were thousands of cheering fans at the Spartek Moscow game. I just had a hard time seeing them through the tens of thousands of police and military personnel who ringed the field, lined the aisles and formed a mile-long human tunnel from the stadium to the metro.

In Russian soccer and society, the authorities love to exert control. So we ended up spending almost as much time waiting to be excused to leave as we did watching the orderly, ordinary match. Dance of the Russian soldiers.

Also like the country, the stadiums are massive, poorly constructed and cold; the food bland though improving; and the people surprisingly warm and friendly.

Intricate, precise, old-fashioned yet enjoying a renaissance -- soccer and Tango in Argentina share much in common. Both cling to past glories. Both worship their icons, Carlos Gardel and Diego Maradona, respectively. Both view themselves as being more European influenced than the rest of the continent.

Kurt and I have a British friend living in Buenos Aires. She’s dating a local. One night over wine, we tweaked him about siding with the enemy.

“They can have the Falklands,” he said. “We have the World Cup,” a championship Argentina grabbed after defeating England with a controversial goal that deflected off Maradona’s hand.

Argentina residents call it “Mano de Dios” or the hand of God. I don’t need a Gallup poll to know that most Argentines would choose cups over rocks without hesitation. And, based on the soccer fanaticism we’ve seen around the globe, the rest of the world would probably follow suit.

For years I believed the conventional wisdom. “Don’t go to Rio,” the experts said. “It’s too dangerous.” The guidebooks warned of hooligan militias while travel agents said, “Beware, beware, beware.” Better stick to someplace safer. Like Branson, Missouri or Conway Twitty City.

After a training regimen that included numerous John Wayne movies, karate classes and power bars, I finally mustered the strength to fly down to Rio. And I was furious....furious it took me 35 years to unearth one of our planet’s most exhilarating cities.

Forget about petty theft because there are plenty of other pitfalls lurking. Here’s a list of some of the real dangers awaiting visitors to Rio.

It’s dangerously fattening. I knew I was in trouble the first time I walked into a famous Porcão restaurant. The sign in front featured a giant, smiling pig’s head. The waiter inside handed me a card colored red on one side green on the other. “It’s to let them know when you’ve had enough,” a friend explained. Great. They see my stomach as a multi-lane freeway. Like an accordion car wreck, the barbequed steaks, pork, chicken, seafood and anything with a prior pulse began to pile high on my plate. Put another fork in that and then put another fork in me.

It’s treacherously fun. Be careful or you’ll be plowed over by a mountain biker or a 70-year-old man clocking his daily 10-mile run. Beaches are packed like an F.D.R. Supreme Court, jammed with paddle ball maniacs (still don’t understand how someone wins that game), heated soccer and volleyball matches, and an endless parade of stunningly beautiful women in less-is-more bikinis. They make your mind skip like a scratched João Gilberto album -- tall and tan and young and lovely...and tall and tan and young and lovely...and tall and…

For men’s swimsuits, there is a double danger. Wear your knee-length, California surfer shorts and risk ridicule from local women who abhor tan lines. Sport a skimpy Speedo and risk having your friends take a picture and post it on a dating website for pale men.

Hand signals can also get tourists into trouble. Many locals end conversations with a thumbs-up. It feels like being trapped in a Happy Days rerun. “Um, it’s Franz, not Fonz.”

And make sure to lose the A-OK sign. Here it suggests an intimate act with oneself. An A-OK can result in a KO if you’re not careful. Wish I picked that up sooner. I ordered meals and drinks for the first few days with the sign. Thanks, waiters, for not serving the fare on my lap.

Wearing the wrong soccer team colors in a local’s bar before a match can be hazardous. Kurt’s black shirt in room full of red went over about as well as my wisecrack to a group of Argentine soccer enthusiasts about Maradona being a drug addict. “Joking, I’m joking. Anybody know the word for joking?”

And I don’t care how many caipirinhas (see high octane margaritas, Brazilian-style) you’ve downed. Do not try to samba. Leave it to the locals. Stick to the gringo two-step. Chances are you’d just throw out a hip and spend the rest of your trip in a hospital. Yes, Brazil’s most famous composer, Antônio Carlos Jobim, said there are only three countries in the world that “swing” – Brazil, Cuba and the United States. Trust me on this. He didn’t mean you.

But the most risky aspect of Rio is the likelihood of addiction, a charge to which I am guilty. Completely and remorselessly. It took me three-and-a-half decades to find my way. Since then I’ve been back several times. I’m here for another month, but already looking forward to the dangers that await on my next visit to Rio.

Like stomachaches on Halloween or athletes who talk about themselves in the third person, there are constants in life beyond death and taxes. So to for life on the road, especially after extended travels. Here’s an incomplete list of things you can expect during an upcoming trip:

• The Brits have a genetic disorder that prevents them from applying suntan lotion properly. Just look at those crazy Rorschach sunburn patterns on the next man who orders a Guinness in the middle of the day.

• Your best experience will be something spontaneous.

• You’ll change your views on an issue thought to be previously unchangeable.

• Someone will stand up in the airplane before it comes to the gate, prompting a stern warning from the flight attendant.

• Despite the push following September 11 for major changes in air travel, you’ll see that security procedures in the rest of the world have changed little.

• You’ll get sick. Eventually. I lasted a year, but was finally done in by a Subway sandwich. Serves me right, by the way, for ordering a Subway sandwich anywhere on this planet.

• The longer you’re on the road the less you’ll stress about things like traffic jams or a lack of hot water.

• You’ll feel guilty about not knowing a foreign language, yet believe even stronger that English is the universal tongue.

• Canadian flags will begin to irritate you. You know the ones. They’re plastered all over backpacks and clothing by hyper-patriotic Canadians and confused Americans who somehow think they will be immune to terrorist attacks with a red and white maple leaf. Kurt got so tired of them he sewed a Canadian flag on his backpack – upside-down and crooked. “Um, mister, I hate to tell you this. But your maple leaf is askew.”

• You’ll overpay by at least 25%, most of the time never realizing it. Once you do find out, the longer you’re on the road, the less you’ll care (Kurt excluded).

• After the trip, newspapers will be far more interesting. And you’ll shake your head at the shortage of foreign news in all countries.

• You’ll also listen with greater interest to a friend’s stories about travel.

• Hotels that hoist the world’s flags perpetuate falsehoods. The truth is world travelers come from a select few countries. The rest simply can’t afford it.

• An American griping about something petty like bus seats that don’t recline will reaffirm the notion of the “Ugly American.”

• But, if you pay attention to travelers from other countries, you’ll realize Americans don’t corner the market on ugly.

• And if you talk to enough people, you know that “uglies” from the U.S. and elsewhere are far outnumbered by respectful and curious travelers.

• Even if the trip strays from plan, you’ll usually long for the next one within 24 hours of your return.

Travel is the only investment with guaranteed returns. Count on it.