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Thirty last steps, carved into a cliff, dropped to a spit of beach on the Ganges' banks. My camp was all set up: tent, picnic area, beach fire pit and a discretely-placed outhouse in its own mini-tent. I collapsed by the sea-green river. It flowed fast, cool and clean. A black puppy tumbled into my lap. 

Sparks still smolder from the clash of architectural egos that created the Arizona Biltmore. "I have always given Albert's name as architect ... and always will," Frank Lloyd Wright wrote to McArthur's widow nearly 25 years after the fact. "But I know better and so should you." Albert Chase McArthur, enlisted by his brothers to design their hotel, called on his former teacher for help. Wright spent four months in Arizona working on The Biltmore. That much we know; how much Wright helped is still hotly contested. McArthur’s relatives say they did ask Wright for a bit of help when he was down on his luck - and he was - but that was all.

"Puck, Puck," go the pomegranate-sized linen bundles of rice cooked with herbs. My body, warmed with fragrant oil, is being pummeled with rice. "Whap, Whap." One therapist starts on my left leg and down the right while the other keeps the rice packs steaming. Unable to resist this whacking duet, limb by limb, my muscles yield.

Under a spreading mango tree, the One&Only Le Touessrok greets its guests. A small bridge curves over a koi pond to Le Touessrok’s grand foyer. Soothing white stucco walls are open towards the sea. One wall, hung with fine silk, is backlit to catch the full effect of silk swaying in a tropical breeze.

We were met by a Peninsula hotel representative as we exited Customs and escorted to our waiting hotel Rolls Royce for the 40 minute ride to the hotel.  The drive into Hong Kong is over a new, modern expressway across a spectacular suspension bridge connecting Lantau Island to the mainland.

The first time I stayed at the Prescott, it was to weasel my way into Wolfgang Puck’s San Francisco outpost, Postrio. The Prescott shares a building with the restaurant and their concierge has priority seating. A good plan, but I bungled it by getting sick. Taken to my Prescott bed, I was forced to have Postrio deliver cinnamon banana pancakes for a late breakfast and later on some soft scrambled eggs with lobster and mascarpone cheese. Then, a tad of Postrio’s intensely-flavored blackberry sorbet sent me off to dreamland. No one felt sorry for me.

Two Bunch Palm's 56 developed acres spread from stately desert to yummy citrus grove to verdant oasis. In 1907, the hot springs and its two bunches of palms were mapped by the US Army Camel Corps; who knew the US ever had a camel corps? Now the green-green center, the spring waters flow through two ponds, several fountains and along stone gullies on their way back to their subterranean aquifer.

Coconut palms line the pearly beach that curves around the Atlantic’s southern seaboard. Three of the Twelve Apostles’ forested peaks rise behind. Cape Town’s restored Victoria and Alfred Waterfront and downtown Longmarket Street are a ten-minute drive away. Beach holiday? Mountain retreat? Urban chic? The Bay Hotel on Camps Bay manages a bit of each.

Even before I got off the plane, I knew I’d made a good choice just the thought of having someone standing outside arrivals with my name on a card was a comfort. Icy water, cool towel and air conditioned town car are a welcome relief when arriving in a still steamy Bangkok past midnight. The near-empty streets of downtown whiz by and in just minutes, a traditional welcome garland of sweet jasmine is in my hand.

The 21-storied Grand Formosa Regent has 539 newly renovated deluxe guestrooms including 60 suites.  Standard and deluxe rooms are the same, each measure 484 square feet – try to find that in New York City.  All rooms have a quietly elegant décor with marvelous marble bathrooms.

St. Patrick was not Irish. William of Orange, the militant Protestants’ hero, was backed by the Pope. Who knew? Not I, but all my Irish-American friends did. The sixteenth century lives in their 21st century psyches like the 1960’s do in mine. A trip to Dublin and two hours in Johnny Connolly’s "seminar on the street" helped me understand why.