Others might choose the Inca Trail in Peru; the pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela in Spain; pub-to-pub walking in the Cotswolds of England; the Appalachian Trail from Georgia to Maine.

I’ve been tempted by the Overland Track in Tasmania. But Robert D. Hershey Jr. extols the virtues of the Milford Track in New Zealand in a recent story in The New York Times. As far back as 1908 this 33.5-mile trail was called the finest walk in the world and many hikers feel it’s true today.

After reading Hershey’s story I’m ready to start planning a trip south. How about you?

Christmas Carols in Adelaide

I didn’t have high hopes for Adelaide. No one I knew had ever said anything good about it. They’d raved about Melbourne and Sydney, even Darwin, but Adelaide hadn’t generated much enthusiasm. So I planned just one quick overnight before heading up to the tropical Northern Territory after a week in the arid outback of South Australia.

I was staying six miles from Adelaide’s city center in Glenelg, right on the beach at the end of a streetcar line adjacent to Moseley Square. The December sun was still high above the sea when I looked out my window and saw the party going on. The wide, brown beach was full of people enjoying themselves. The sea was calm, a bay without breakers, and people were strolling along a jetty that reached far out into the harbor. I was hot, tired, and dirty after a long ride from the outback, and it took a heartbeat to decide the best way to cool off was to go for a swim in the sea.

The water caressed me as I swam back and forth, floated endlessly under the blue sky wondering if I should just stay there until the sun went down. I didn’t, but after I took a shower and looked out my window again, I knew I had to be outside. It was one of those moments when everything conspired to create good feelings: the balmy evening, the sunset, the people enjoying the festivity of simply being out together seemingly with no cares.

I strolled along the jetty with toddlers testing their legs, kids chasing each other, adolescents and singles strutting their stuff, parents and infants and grandparents all out in a display too wholesome to be believed. Summer dresses, bathing suits, rollerblades, fine figures of both women and men, it was all there, bathed in the end of a fine summer day. The sun was a red dome on the horizon, rays shooting up from beneath the sea illuminating high clouds in breaths of fire. For a moment everyone fell silent in awe, except for the daredevils leaping from a platform where a sign read, “Diving or Jumping from Jetty Prohibited.”

I exchanged glances with a handsome grandmother in a blue sun dress and soon she was looking over my shoulder as I scribbled in my notebook.

“Oh, I thought you were sketching,” she said, both embarrassed and disappointed to see that I was a mere note taker.

“No, I’m afraid that’s a talent that’s escaped me.”

“Are you from the States?” she asked, and then we were off and running. She told me about her visit to relatives in Florida, how she was afraid to be in New York alone, about her son who competed in the Americas Cup and will do so again. Before long her husband was at my side showing me photos of the hovercraft he had built himself because a fisherman swore there wasn’t such a vessel in all of South Australia.

In time we said good-bye and I wandered to Jetty Road as darkness fell. The street was lined with pizza parlors, Greek delis, restaurants, and fast-food joints; people spilled over outdoor tables. I ate a souvlaki sandwich on the fly and watched vintage 1929 tram cars come and go from Moseley Square.

A crowd of rugby types drank loudly outside a bar at the edge of the square. Next door a jazz band was ripping through some riffs and inside people were dancing wildly. Outside, a three-year-old mimicked the dancers in a hilarious performance that soon drew the attention of everyone inside except those being mocked, even the band members nodded to the little impresario. Her mother stood back and watched, charmed to see her child entertaining so many people and happy to be relieved of her motherly duties for a spell. Inside, the non-dancers were doubled over with laughter.

I made my way across the square and past an amusement area with video games, a waterslide, dodge-em cars, a carousel. Ahead a Ferris wheel turned but I was drawn by familiar music, voices raised in song. The music came from a long, grassy area rimmed with Norfolk pines and sunken like an amphitheater. It was full of lights, burning candles in the hands of hundreds, maybe thousands, of people. The candles illuminated their faces, captured the sweet expressions of people singing with feeling in the warm, warm night. “Hark the herald angels sing” rose into the balmy breeze. On a stage at one end a woman led the song. Behind me the carousel spun. I stood there, inexplicably transfixed, moved beyond words. Christmas. Yes, it was almost Christmas. But how could that be? The days were so long, the nights so warm.

“Silent night,” the congregation began, and I felt a flush rise to my face. “They’re singing Christmas carols,” I thought, almost saying it out loud. Around me everyone held candles in makeshift holders to protect their hands from the hot wax. Lights glowed like fireflies in the darkness, and the band played. I stood there a long time, then sat in the grass with my neighbors, even joined in singing the familiar songs. It was astonishing how homey this moment was, how welcome I felt and how comforted I was celebrating Christmas with strangers in the dark so very far from home. I was suddenly aware of how important this kind of event must have been the first time it was staged, how symbolic of the settling of Australia it was. In the early years this would have represented the powerful need of these people to create something familiar, a piece of England in this distant, desolate land. Today, the settlers are settled, and this piece of England is thriving.

As if in a childhood dream I was drawn to the Ferris wheel. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been on one and suddenly it seemed important to take a ride. I’d spent most of my small bills but the operator let me ride for the change in my pocket, and as I rose up into the black sky the stars came out in the heavens. Descending toward the amphitheater was like dropping into a pool of lights. Rising again I entered the constellations, dropping I fell into candlelight. Christmas carols followed me high into the sky and greeted me as I dropped toward the glowing lights with that tickle in my belly you get when the bottom falls out beneath you. Up again into the stars, down again into the candles, stars and candles, stars and candles, until the sky and the ground and the sea and the breeze and the song all merged into one. Tears welled up and I thought, “My God, this is Adelaide? I planned only twelve hours here? Does this sort of thing happen all the time?”

I had no answers, of course. No longer a child, I just rode the Ferris wheel on the edge of the sea through constellations of stars.

Charles Veley and others of his ilk aren’t like most of us. They want, and intend, to go everywhere.

I met Charles last night when I went to hear Rolf Potts speak about his books, Vagabonding: An Uncommon Guide to the Art of Long-Term World Travel, and Marco Polo Didn’t Go There: Stories and Revelations from One Decade as a Postmodern Travel Writer.

I’ve known Rolf for many years now but catch up with him only occasionally. My excuse last night was he was in San Francisco, and as executive editor of Travelers’ Tales I was partly responsible for bringing his latest book, Marco Polo Didn’t Go There, into the world. I couldn’t let our author pass through town with saying hello and shaking his hand.

It turned out that Rolf had written a story about Charles for The New York Times Magazine that had run just two days earlier, on Sunday, Nov. 16, and Charles and his wife were there with a basket of wine to greet Rolf and improve the mood after the event.

Charles looked vaguely familiar—I realized I’d read about him somewhere before and must have seen a photo of him. But here he was in the flesh, the current title holder of Most Traveled Person in the World with 709 of the world’s recognized places under his belt (well, perhaps more appropriately their soil in the treads of his well-worn boots). Turned out the reigning king of travel isn’t a swashbuckler but an engaging, gracious regular guy.

We chatted about kids and schools and books and finding office space in the Presidio (where Triporati is located) and when Rolf’s book-signing duties were over the party moved down the street to a restaurant. When you’re with the World’s Most Traveled Person and Rolf Potts, vagabond and writer extraordinaire, you assume the conversation will range all over the world, and I’m sure it did.

I, however, being a writer myself, had a deadline that night for a story that my editors in the eastern time zone would be demanding before I awoke the next day, so I had to leave. But I took solace in the knowledge that I’d have another chance to talk with Charles because he was here in San Francisco—for a while. I’m sure it won’t be long before he heads out to visit place number 758.

The Simpson Desert at the northern end of South Australia is one of the world’s most unforgiving places where temperatures can reach hellish temperatures (this year officials forecast temperatures as high as 50 degrees centigrade, or 122 degrees Fahrenheit). Thousands visit the Simpson Desert Conservation Park each year to see the sand dunes and rock formations, but the park has no maintained roads, only tracks, and breakdowns are common, both from the rough terrain and intense heat. Deaths have occurred in the past and officials say they have had many near misses.

If death by desiccation isn’t enough to deter you, you probably won’t be put off by the fine for violators: 1,000 Australian dollars (US$657).

Can 2500 Aussies be wrong? It’s all a matter of opinion in a survey asking what Australians consider the least appealing Australian city to visit on a holiday. The web site totaltravel.com asked users to pick their least favorite and the answers are surprising. Canberra, the capital, came in first (well, last, as in, least favorite), which isn’t too big a surprise, but Sydney came in second. In other words, one of Australia’s premier cities is the second least favorite place for Australians to visit.

At the bottom of the heap, or the most appealing city for Australians, is Perth, followed by Hobart, Brisbane, and Melbourne.

Here’s how the vote for least favorite city lined up: Canberra (33%), Sydney (14%), Darwin and Adelaide (13%), Brisbane and Melbourne (8%), Hobart (6%) and Perth (5%).

Of course all of the cities have their defenders, as noted by the comments on a news.com.au story about the survey results. Leading the defenders is the Australian Capital Tourism agency, which notes that Canberra consistently receives an 80% rating in overall visitor satisfaction.

It all depends on what you like. Me, I’ll take Melbourne for culture and restaurants, Adelaide for outdoor activities, and Darwin for access to Aboriginal culture and the tropical wilds.