Here are the good, the bad and the ugly of the most interesting airports we visited around the world.

The Good

Suvarnabhumi Airport – Bangkok, Thailand

Bangkok's airport is a temple of contemporary architecture

Like Bangkok, the airport caters to an eclectic mix of people. Standing next to the airport’s Islamic prayer room were Thai ladyboys, and down the hallway in the airport’s slick food court were tubby, gruff Aussies with tiny, Thai women on their arms. It’s hard to decide which is the bigger spectacle – the airport’s clean, cool architectural modernity or the constantly moving zoo of humans it it, where people-watching is elevated to sport.

Changi International Airport – Singapore

Singapore's airport tops our list of best places to lay over

For something more low-tech, those on long layovers can actually get spa treatments or take a shower at the facilities in the airport. What really impressed us, though, were the two separate 24-hour napping areas, the six open-air garden areas and the array of shops that read like a who’s who of luxury retailers: Hermes, Prada, Gucci and Bulgari.

Because of our timing – we arrived from Sydney late at night and had an early-morning flight to Mumbai – we decided not to take advantage of the special pass offered to tourists, like us, on extended layovers to tour central Singapore for a few hours. All in all, Changi, for our money…er,time, is our favorite place to lay over.

The Odd

Bhadrapur Airport – Southeast of Nowhere, Nepal

No irony intended with the VIP sign at Nepal's Bhadrapur Airport

Third world airports aren't good for nervous flyers

Once on the plane, the pilot eyes you by height and weight and shuffles the passengers around to keep the plane’s “equilibrium,” always fun to hear any time you’re in a moving object…flying in the sky…through the Himalayas. Needless to say, we made it safely with some spectacular mountain views Nepal is famous for. But this is one memorable travel experience I’m OK with looking back on and not eager to re-live.

Kilimanjaro International Airport – Moshi/Arusha, Tanzania

Kilimanjaro International Airport (JRO) is dubbed "the gateway to Africa's wildlife"

JRO, as its known in airport code, is situated between Arusha, where most visitors embark on wildlife adventures in the nearby Serengeti and Ngorongoro Crater or across the border to Kenya’s game parks, and Moshi, where trekkers attempt to summit Africa’s highest mountain for which the airport is eponymously named, Mt. Kilimanjaro.

We first picked up Laura’s dad from here when he met us for some African adventure. He couldn’t believe that the 747 he was on was going to land in what he thought was a field. I got a taste of what he was talking about when I flew to Nairobi from JRO. Because I didn’t receive a wake-up call at my hotel, I was very worried security was not going to let me through to my gate when I arrived 40 minutes before my flight was set to depart, well under the 2 hours suggested for international flights.

What a laugh. Airports like these are my favorite – small, easily manageable and which represent the destination itself. Like Tanzanians, the airport was warm, welcoming and laid back. The security guard was one of about 15 people total in the airport and didn’t fuss about my late arrival. He calmly scanned my bag in seconds, leaving me plenty of time to enjoy the fruits of this quaint, aeronautical operation.

On a clear day after a storm, it's possible to get a view of snow-capped Mt. Kilimanjaro

The Ugly

Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport – Mumbai, India

Mumbai's airport doesn't do much to contradict negative stereotypes

The place is a dump, to put it bluntly. A disorganized, bureaucratically corrupt dump. Laura and I walked out of baggage claim to find filthy, squat toilets in one of the world’s busiest airports. An airport official charged me 300 rupees to hire a taxi, which I realized shortly after was not an official price but an arbitrary one. The terminal hallway was dusty, old and prison-like. We were, at 6 a.m. local time, quickly shocked into “we are in India now” mode.

In all honesty, I didn’t really expect anything different from Mumbai’s airport. India is still a very poor nation, after all. It’s just that through traveling so many of my expectations had been subverted by the reality of a place. Yet, here I finally was in India, and the stereotypes generated through email chain pictorials with subject titles like “Is your country this crazy?” were proving truer than the impressions painted by Western media of a burgeoning economy on the cusp, along with China, of becoming the world’s next great superpower.

To be fair, in doing some research, I learned that over a billion dollars has been spent already to modernize Mumbai’s international airport, with pictures to prove it. It’s likely then that we arrived to an old gate in an old terminal. Still, double digit annual GDP growth India might have, but it has some serious PR problems on its hands if this is what half of the country’s main airport looks like.

Café Tortoni

Argentina's most famous cafe - Cafe Tortoni

Café Tortoni’s service is gruff, but always impeccable. You won’t mind that your waiter is not trying to chat you up after ordering the piping-hot churros and chocolate. Waiters expertly serve rich hot chocolate from still richer-looking copper kettles and matching cups. You will need the accompanying milk to relax the thick, lava-like chocolate. After dipping a warm, sugar-coated churro in your hot chocolate, you will feel the guilt that comes with such decadence, but not enough to deter you from dipping again and again.

If you need a jolt after the soporific chocolate indulgence, order a cortado, or espresso, to get your mettle back. Then, take a peak behind the velvet curtains to take in one of the café’s tango shows or head to the back to shoot some pool. Undoubtedly, after such an elegant experience and a look around at the walls of Café Tortoni, you will leave with a better history of the city and understanding of its people.

Café Richmond

Amidst the frenetic chaos of Florida Street, Cafe Richmond is a bastion of cool and calm

The décor is classic 1920’s with old chandeliers casting a warm glow over the long, meandering room. There are places still where a heavy haze of smoke just seems right. Café Richmond is one of them. Although smoking was banned in indoor bars and cafés a few years ago here in Buenos Aires, there are a few loopholes to get around the law. For this and to appease many of its clientele that have been frequenting the café for years, there is a smoking solarium toward the back. The bathrooms of the café are equally impressive in their décor and are worth a gander (seriously) when you patronize the place. Hang out at The Richmond long enough and you might begin to channel the writing voices of two of its leading habitués – Graham Greene and Jorge Luis Borges.

Cafe Richmond on Calle Florida is where Mad Men congregate

Café La Biela

La Biela is where the tres chic Portenos come for their cafe con leche

Patrons of La Biela have the fortune of enjoying their café con leche alfresco. Outside, one can enjoy a favorite Porteno pastime, people-watching. Indulge your curiosities and pass judgment on (or pretend to be totally indifferent to) the many tourists taking in impromptu tango shows, snapping photos of Recoleta Cemetery or admiring the bright white Nuestra Senora de Pilar Catholic church. In cooler months, this is a great place to warm yourself in the afternoon sun; during summer, cool off in the shade if you can snag a table underneath the great limbs of the famed ombu trees with their Wizard of Oz-like appearance.

Patio area at La Biela shaded by the long-limbed ombu tree

Las Violetas

The stained glass windows of Almagro's Las Violetas is more coffee cathedral than cafe

Enter through the gold-plated revolving door on Avenida Rivadavia and you will think you’ve entered a café built by Willy Wonka – the 1920’s version. The first thing you’ll notice are the magnificent glass cases filled with every type of sweet pastry your heart could desire: giant alfajores – mini shortbread cakes filled with dulce de leche and coated with sugar – and their baby offspring, fruit cakes, medialunas, cherry danishes, chocolate pastries, cakes and éclairs.

Like many other cafes of its time that sadly no longer exist, Las Violetas is enormous, having enough space to seat 200 guests at one time. Ceilings flaunting gold chandeliers rise 30 feet above finely-crafted Italian marble floors. The café was made more European during the 1920′s by the addition of French stained glass windows, giving it a bright, airy and open feeling. Female or not, one must head upstairs where the ladies’ restroom is located to take a gander at the café in all of its glory.

In a nod to Arthur Guinness, Las Violetas serves its coffee black as oil and thick as mud with a white, frothy, bubbling top. If tea is more your cup, then look no further than the Maria Cala tea service – an over-the-top spread of scones, finger sandwiches, cakes and pastries, meant for three, but large enough for six!

Bar and cafe at Alvear Palace Hotel in Recoleta

The Old Course at St. Andrew’s – St. Andrews, Scotland

Road Hole Bunker at The Old Course at St. Andrews, St. Andrews, Scotland

The Ocean Course – Kiawah Island, South Carolina, USA

Lowcountry Links at The Ocean Course in Kiawah, South Carolina

Banff Springs Golf Course – Banff, Alberta, Canada

Banff Springs Golf Course winds along the Bow River in Canada's Rocky Mountains

Fancourt Links Course – George, South Africa

The Links at Fancourt, a Gary Player-designed course situated along South Africa's Garden Route

Kauri Cliffs Golf Course – Bay of Islands, North Island, New Zealand

The Kauri Cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean on New Zealand's North Island

This was a sponsored post. All of the opinions are those of Round We Go. It’s our promise that we will never accept a sponsorship or endorse a company or product that does not match the general interests of our readers…unless it seriously lines our pockets, then we hope you’ll understand.

Indian mayhem in the Paharganj neighborhood of Delhi - craziest place on Earth

Be experienced, I mean. That is the question. Everyone, love it or hate it, will tell you that India is a notoriously difficult country to travel. The most challenging aspect of Indian travel is the overwhelming feeling of helplessness one experiences when faced with such extreme, abject poverty. I was absolutely overwhelmed by the myriad emotions I experienced upon my arrival.

Rickshaw driver on the streets of the Parhaganj in Delhi, India

Indians' warmth comes in many different ways, sometimes in the form of a flower

“We had a meal yesterday that sums up all of India for me so far. It was exquisite and alarming. Upon walking in, we were sat, and within seconds we had waiters clapping and dishes arriving at our places at a punishing pace. Then, the owner described in the most gracious way how we should eat all this wonderful Indian food that lay before us. This still did not deter the other patrons from looking at us like we were in a zoo and laughing, but our food was too good to even care. The flavors and tastes in one meal will make everything else I eat moving forward “less than.” There were piquant spices followed by sweetness and then tumbling into sour, breads upon breads upon breads, one more delicious than the next, and the desserts – Jesus, the desserts!

Indian thali at Radjhani restaurant in Mumbai

India's inhabitants make up a huge melting pot of peoples, cultures and religions

20 million people in this city. There is so much sadness and I see things that break my heart. Everything is in so many ways, all wrong. I am surprised, however, at how easily I’ve been able to look past this. I don’t think this is the work of travel and seeing the plight of poverty in so many places. It’s the people themselves. There is a humor and respect from the people for all things and so they don’t seem to feel sorry for themselves in the ways we would at home.

Even when they stare – and they stare! intently, purposefully, and directly into your eyes – there is a genuine curiosity. Foreigners are still rare enough I suppose. The poorest people here seem happy at times and in various ways tend to enjoy life, something unimaginable considering their circumstances.

Indian children are curious

Indian men are really curious

Men holding hands as they walk is what struck me my very first day here in Mumbai. While Indians unfortunately still carry homophobic views, men here do not have any of the hang-ups about showing non-sexual affection with each other, something I find to be exceptionally rare in any culture. People are generally so warm and inviting that, as a tourist, I am already growing tired of having to tell people where I am from, why I come to India and that, yes, I am married, and, no, I do not have kids.”

The vibrant colors of India

Those were my first thoughts upon landing in Havana against the wishes and the law of the United States government. Using a friend’s wedding in Mexico as the perfect cover and jumping-off point, Laura and I decided to steal a surreptitious look into that “inner sanctum” they call Cuba.

While the cars and prices may not have changed much, Cuba no longer represents the warm and vibrant party-like atmosphere that attracted so many Americans to these parts in the 40’s and 50’s. Cuba, I soon learned, can be a depressing place. But to describe it solely in those terms would be a terrible injustice. No, the Cuba that I found was too pregnant with contradictions to be summed up in a neat little package with a bow around it. Ideologically isolated, yet geographically close, Cuba can best be described as a forbidden fruit, possessing multiple layers and begging to be explored.

What I, like many Americans, failed to consider is that Cuba is much more exotic to us than it is to the many others free to travel there. For tourists coming in from Europe for their Cuba holiday, the island is full of sun and sand and a place to relax for a long weekend to escape the winter doldrums. That I was not one of a few very brave foreigners that dare enter Castro’s domain immediately gave me a feeling of disappointment.

Crumbling beauty of Havana, Cuba

But, this is not to disparage travel to Cuba. No, in fact, I highly recommend it! Surprised? Cuba is a truly unique place, and not only for notorious reasons. My earliest observation is also the most memorable in my mind. Driving into the city from the airport, I was struck by nature’s primacy on the island. The lush vegetation we saw everywhere was not simply a result of tropical temperatures taking course; instead, it was a conscious effort on the part of the government not to be conquered by capitalist interests. There are no Cancun-style high-rise condos, no copycat T-shirt stores or souvenir shops lining every street and no unctuous sales types trying to lure you into their Carlos O’Something Irish bar, quite refreshing for incoming tourists.

In that same vein, save a few Che or Fidel pictorials, there are no billboards, no advertisements and no marketing materials constantly fighting for your attention. Given that Laura and I were both employed in the marketing field, this struck another chord – our jobs, our entire industries rather, did not even exist here. Disappointing perhaps, but on a base level, I think this is again refreshing.

Music continues to play an integral role in Cuban society. Because the musical arts is one of Fidel’s pet projects, musicians are encouraged through state patronage. It seems every which way I turned, there was live music flowing out of dilapidated music halls and into the streets, giving credence to the belief that Buena Vista Social Club is not even the best musical outfit Cuba has to offer. In this way, Cuba, and particularly the cultural and political capital of Havana, still maintains the Latin musical flair and history that it has long been synonymous with.

Along with great music comes great dancing. One of our favorite nights in Cuba took place in a neighborhood square in the colonial town of Trinidad, home to the plantation mansions of the the 18th and 19th century sugar barons past. Mojito in one hand and a cigar in the other, I watched as the square filled with locals of all ages coming to dance, beginning with live music at 10pm and continuing on until the early hours of the morning. This is how the locals escape, so to speak, and forget about the difficulties in their lives, taking pleasure in something so simple. Our last night brought us to one of Havana’s most popular music clubs where a spectacularly entertaining band created a blend of jazz, rumba, mambo and salsa using a variety of African and Caribbean beats and instruments.

Cuba is now, in its own way, creating a new style of communism – state-run capitalism, not too dissimilar to that of China. The government now uses 50% of tourist revenue to rehab crumbling colonial edifices, many being turned into hip cafes, art houses and restaurants in the Old Town area of “La Habana Vieja.” The other 50% of tourist revenue is then pumped back into schools, hospitals and other resources the citizens need. This is long overdue, in my opinion, and sadly still benefits tourists more than locals. But, it’s a step in the right direction.

So, after reading this, you might be confused as to how I feel about Cuba. For that, you are forgiven, because in many ways, I am, too. With Cuba, you can’t peel away a layer and see or feel the soul of it. I realize now that finding the unique core of this place takes time, patience and persistence. As an explorer, I haven’t met a destination yet that I haven’t longed to discover more of or get to know on a deeper level. I guess in this way, Cuba presents a hefty challenge. I’m up for it.

They told us it would take months, if not a year, to readjust to life after a journey around the world. Nine months and 26 days later, I can attest: They. Were. Right.

Last week marked the two year anniversary of our departure for our 14-month around the world journey. If I didn’t know it then, I certainly know it now. Life as we knew it would never be the same. While we’ve spent a good part of 2011 putting our travels aside, planting some roots and focusing on the next chapter of our life back Stateside, the truth is it doesn’t quite work that way. Our travels, and lessons learned on the road, have become a part of our daily lives.

We now have a place to call home. Our packs collect dust on our basement floor and no one-way transcontinental ticket sits folded up in our back pocket. But we’re finding ourselves re-inspired to share our stories, your stories…of those travel moments that define us.

——

This gust of re-inspiration to dream up our next adventure and immerse ourselves in our travels once again comes primarily from a grassroots campaign called Meet Plan Go! (founded by fellow travel bloggers and adventurers Sherry Ott and Michaela Potter). We were invited to speak last week at Meet Plan Go!’s national lecture series. The travel seminar, whose mission is to put a career break on every resume, was held simultaneously in 17 cities across the country. From Honolulu to New York and several places in between, travelers gathered to share their stories and inspire others to hit the road. At home in Chicago, we were joined by a panel of like-minded travelers: Dave Nilson who just returned from a year and half jaunt across the globe, Katy Healy fresh off the road from a six month global sojourn and Keith Savage, who spends a good part of the year exploring the highlands and lowlands of Scotland. To add to the mix, we even had a panelist Skype in from her hotel room in Russia.

As we shared tales and tips from our global journeys, 100 wander-lustful faces, in search of their own adventures, stared back at us. For the first time in a long time, we weren’t the ‘crazy ones.’ Surrounded by travelers in a cooking school auditorium overlooking a misty Chicago skyline, I was brought back to the moments when rehashing travel tales with like-minded friends was a daily ritual… I’m on a sun-kissed Rajasthani rooftop sharing a piping hot pot of masala chai with a family of stranger-cum-friends. Under the waning moon and bright-starry night, I’m sipping on kava in the company of some wanderlust souls. I’m cooking up a braii of burgers with pairs of safari sun-burnt faces amidst the snorting sound of hippos calling. I’m in a buzzing tree-lined alleyway sipping on frosty Tsingtao beers with a slew of perpetual travelers. I’m snacking on yak cheese bread with a team of global nomads under a tin roof pummeled by the Himalayan rains…A thousand miles away, I feel at home.

We spent a good half of our around the world journey trying to explain to others why Americans don’t travel. We battled the typical “Only 10 percent of Americans have passports?” questions and frequent befuddled faces after revealing our US citizenship and long-term travel plans. After leaving this year’s Meet Plan Go! event, however, I was hopeful. 1200 attendees across the country with dreams of traveling the world? Perhaps the time is just around the corner when excuses will lay to rest.

As Steve Jobs put it: “Here’s to the crazy ones.”

I just returned from the final long run of my marathon training for the kids and with just two weeks now to go till race day, I’m overcome with emotion. It’s on my long runs that I’m taken back there to Mazabuka, Zambia. I want to share some memories, some excerpts from my journal, that will perhaps inspire others to consider a donation to this cause.
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November 1, 2010

Today I arrived in Mazabuka, Zambia to the orphanage where we’ll spend the next month. Today, I cried my eyes out.

I must be honest here. These weren’t tears of sadness for the desperation of the faces before us, faces that represented a generation of shattered lives in a tilting world. These were shameful tears, steeped in a selfishness that comes from a sheltered world of egoism, our world of riches, pleasures and perpetual comfort. I didn’t know if I could do it.

Seemingly a world away, we stepped off the bright blue bus this morning to the sound of Coldplay crackling out of the bus speakers to face the sweltering heat of the African sun. We’d arrived to our destination: Mazabuka, Zambia. That small little dot on the map of our guidebook and a place few Zambians could tell us really anything about, Mazabuka’s claim to fame was that it was the home of Mazaubka Sugar. We didn’t know much more about the sweetest town in Zambia accept that it was awash in fields upon fields of sugar cane plantations. From the looks of the dusty roads and sparse fields around us, it was hard to believe anything could grow here much less an abundance of sugar, but that was beside the point. We’d arrived for the children, twelve abandoned orphans living on the outskirts of town in the rural village of Riverview in a home called Oz Kids.

Few looks compared to what can only be called the Indian stare – the way Indians look at you so deeply and intently you feel like they are looking directly at your soul – but here in Mazabuka we stood out more than ever. We’d been the only ones to exit our bus at the Mazabuka stop and from the looks thrown our way, it looked like very few ever did, especially two Western backpackers. With our packs fully loaded we trudged on with our safari sun-burnt faces past the maze of dilapidated shacks made of cement blocks topped with corrugated tin roofs.

Our befuddled faces soon attracted the attention of a team of youngsters huddled on a stone wall, and anxious to make a buck, they ushered us into their rickety vehicle. As our taxi pulled up, we bumped along the dirt road to the shrieking sound of gleeful children running out of mud huts and roofless homes. From the rearview mirror, I could see tens of children excitedly flapping their hands in the air amidst animated shouts of “Mabua! Mabua!” (white man) on bewildered faces.

I’d seen the home in a picture so I recognized it right away. We’d arrived to Oz Kids Orphanage, a home run by a couple from Townsville, Australia who had been so disconcerted or inspired (or perhaps both) on a recent visit to Central Africa that they decided to do something about it. They bought a plot of land, a cement block of a house and filled it to the brim with kids.

As we pulled in, I could see faces coyly peeking out behind barred windows and the unforgettable smile of an adolescent boy, I’d soon grow to know and love so well. On the heels of his orphaned brother, a bashful young boy trailed closely behind and together they greeted us with hesitation, with hope and grace. With an innocent graciousness, they proudly carried our bags to our room and here I got the first glimpse of the place I would soon call home.

We’d be living in the home with the children for our month’s stay. Of course I expected the most basic of living situations, but not even our year of travel could have prepared me for life here. Following the pitter patter of calloused feet on a cement floor, we made our way to our room. Looking back and knowing them now so well, the boys were so proud to show it to us. It was, after all, our own room, something they’d never know. The kids, I’d learn, had grown up with entire families of eight to 10 sharing one bed in single-room shacks. This was a Zambian luxury, but what I saw at the time was an oversized closet, a tattered mattress on some wooden beams beneath a hole-ridden mosquito net.

The bathroom would be shared with the twelve children. We had a toilet (which we later learned most of the children had never seen before arriving here and were equally awestruck and confounded with the innovative apparatus) and a faucet under which to wash our sweaty bodies. Above the faucet hung an abundance of dirty diapers dripping on a roped line. And creepy crawlers, those I never before knew existed, graced the white walls and would play witness to our daily bucket-like showers.

“We want to learn from you,” said Autie Monde, the Whitney Houston look alike and so-called mother of the house. We’d soon learn that this would be a theme of our stay. Everyone was looking to learn from the mabuas who’d just rolled into town.

But, what did I have to share?

Within moments of arrival, soiled babes were passed off to us, looking up at us with blank faces. Dear, precious Joseph was placed in our hands and basically put under our constant care from that minute on. Ryan welcomed it, them, this…without reservation, without hesitation.

Retreating to the privacy of our own little room, I began to unpack a few things, placing my clothing items in neat stacks on the dusty shelf and floor as tears streamed down my face. We’d come all this way. I wanted this, I reminded myself. I didn’t expect to react this way. Why was it so hard?

And then, they broke me…

________

November 21, 2010

I hardly recognize that person who walked through those doors three weeks ago. Living, eating and spending every waking moment with the kids we have become completely immersed in their lives. I’ve had my hair twisted, yanked and tugged into tight cornrows umpteen times and the girls try fruitlessly through tearful laughter to get my dancing hips to move the way theirs do. They spend hours admiring the white palms of our hands and rubbing fingers through Ryan’s beard has become a favorite pastime.

It took some time to develop our place in the home. We wanted to give some purpose to our visit and leave the kids with something greater than they had before we arrived. We knew this wouldn’t come in the form of our pocketbook, but we were hopeful there was a piece of us we could leave behind.

When they weren’t scrubbing the toilet or beating their laundry clean, the kids spent their time under the hot sun staring silently, aimlessly into the distance. It’s hard to imagine what it is like to have absolutely nothing and what nothing really means. We lived it. Minutes passed like hours, hours like days. No toys, no books. Shoes that don’t fit. A little shoe box with a few tattered shirts and pants was all they had to call their own. And the pride they took in caring for those little boxes, you’d think they were filled with gold.

We had to be creative to bring some structure and happiness into the home. This came in the form of daily activity sessions with the kids. We held English and baking lessons and health and geography classes. We held epic hangman tournaments and fierce sessions of musical chairs and Red Rover (now known in Zambia as the mistakenly dubbed “Land Rover” game). With the help of our trusty iPod we also brought music into the home. Hosting dance parties rivaling Disco Fever became a daily ritual, attracting kids from a two mile radius. Out on the front stoop in the heart of Central Africa, we raised a whole generation of Zambian kids to the beats of Laga Gaga and Boom Boom Pow.

We grew closer to the kids faster than we could have ever imagined. It didn’t take long before they opened their hearts to us, and heart-wrenching stories of disease, abuse and death soon followed.

“My father died of AIDS and my mum no longer wanted me.”
“My mother is dying of AIDS and we didn’t have any food to eat.”
“My father drowned and my mom stopped looking after me.”

Nothing prepares you for how to react to the children retelling their life stories. Some fight through tears others talk about their parents’ deaths as if recounting their day at school. You want to hold them, hug them, take it all away. You want them to forget it. You want to help them start a new. We felt helpless.

They craved our affection and seemed physically hungry for our love. We took turns bringing a child at a time into town. Each child had their day. We thought this would be a great way for the kids to get a little individual attention and I don’t think they could have enjoyed it more. On their day, the girls each spent hours combing their hair and dressing in their Sunday best. The boys ironed t-shirts and wore a smile from ear to ear as they walked hand in hand with us to town.

We found a little spot that served up chocolate milkshakes and we thought this would be the perfect treat for each child. We certainly weren’t trying to buy our way into their hearts, but we thought it would be a nice gesture for the kids. And well, maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. We were acting out of love and for some of the kids this may have proved to be too much. Some had never ventured out of the village before and being in town now, in a little cafe, with well-to-do Mazabukans, a few seemed quite out of place. They held up the place-mat in wonderment and pointed inquisitively at the vase in the middle of the table filled with flowers. I could see their hearts tighten as they saw friends and schoolmates traipsing through town with their mothers and fathers. Though we tried to make them forget the pain, if only for a day, we knew the word orphan, resounding like a punch in the stomach or a dart in the heart, echoed still in their heads.

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On October 9, we’re hitting the pavement, running 26.2 for these kids. Hope you’ll consider making a donation to make their world a little bit brighter.

For more details on our efforts, click here.

Music: Sigur Ros

Untitled from Cullen Keller on Vimeo.

Morning view of Mt. Kilimanjaro from Moshi, Tanzania

I’m in Moshi, Tanzania enjoying my morning cup of chai. The rooster crowing begs cloud-shrouded Mt. Kilimanjaro to peak out above me, revealing the fresh blanket of snow she received from the storm brewing the night before. I hear the whooshing sound of straw brooms whisking storefronts clean of the dusty roads amidst Swahili calls of “Jambo! Mambo?” from street-side vendors.

As the town wakes up and the locals of this verdant, coffee-growing, banana-planting town start their day, I’m packing up my bags. Gearing up for a long haul on the roads of Tanzania, I prepare for the journey to our next destination. It’s a typical Monday morning for me…only it’s not. This is the kind of travel day I’ve come to know, loathe and love so well, but this one, it’s the last.

Taking in sunset together over the Taj Mahal

On the road for 14 months, travel has become a part of me. With only a week left, I’m overcome with emotion, my head flooded with a million memories. From the bustling streets of Buenos Aires we’ve made our way around the world to the traffic-choked lanes of Nairobi. We trekked through the Alps – both Southern and Swiss – and climbed to great heights to the peaks of the Himalayas. On camel back, we caravanned deep into the Indian desert and bathed elephants in the rivers of Thailand. We biked through rice paddies in southwest China and kayaked through the crystal clear waters of the Fijian Isles. We’ve watched the morning sun peak out over the Taj Mahal and the Great Pyramids and cast afternoon shadows over the Sydney Opera House and Serengeti.

We’ve become well-acquainted with squat toilets and sleepless nights wrapped in mosquito nets and taken more journeys than we’d care to admit on rat-infested trains. We brush teeth under the trickle of our water bottles and share bathrooms with armies of ants. We pop anti-malaria pills like they’re Flinstone vitamins and that little pink bottle of Pepto-Bismol has become a best friend. We carry our closets on our backs and these memories in our hearts.

Embarking on our around the world trip, I was prepared to have my reality turned on its head. But after traversing the globe, I realize I could have never fully prepared for the unforgettable shift of consciousness that was to take place.

The journey was, in a word, transformative.

A New Zealand sunset over Marlborough Sounds

Reflecting on these experiences, I can’t help but think back on the girl I was. I remember packing up my backpack and feeling so uneasy leaving those jeans and hairdryer behind. I remember the cold, hard feeling of the backpack, fully loaded, on my shoulders for the first time, wondering why my business traveler, rolling suitcase couldn’t fit the bill. I remember standing in the airport getting ready to take off on our first transcontinental flight, realizing I didn’t have a phone, blackberry or voicemail to check. I remember feeling free.

And that feeling of freedom, of sheer adventure that comes with the uncertainty of where we will lay our head each night, that is what I think I will miss the most. I will miss when our days were our days, when every minute decision became a challenge. I will miss meeting fascinating people from around the globe – locals and travelers alike – whose stories have inspired and touched me deeply.

Of course there are countless things I miss from home. I miss talking to my mom every day and going on runs with my dad. I miss walking barefoot into the bathroom in the middle of the night. I miss the familiar sound of my friends’ voices on the other end of the telephone line. I miss crisp sheets and the smell of clean laundry. I miss the change of seasons, though I never thought I would.

The challenging part? I’ve begun to feel most comfortable in my skin when I’m uncomfortable. In our ever-changing environment, I’ve become a chameleon, continuously adapting to my surroundings. I thrive on the challenge, the vulnerability I feel when everything around me is unfamiliar and foreign. It’s in this raw, heightened state that I feel most alive, and somehow awakened to everything around me.

Standing proud atop Nepal's Annapurna Base Camp at sunrise

With an experience like this, not a day went by that I wasn’t overwhelmed with gratitude. The crippled Indian boy walking on his hands through our train car sweeping garbage for spare change, that Burmese rickshaw driver all gussied up for a day of waiting in front of our hotel for the chance to make a buck, those twelve precious orphans who captured my heart in Zambia, these are images that fill my head. Reminded daily in these surroundings, I’ve grown grateful for the things I’ve grown up taking for granted. The reality is that no matter where my path of life leads me, it’s not likely I’ll ever have to worry about putting food on the table, a roof over my head and finding clean water to drink. For the thousands of others we met along the way, these thoughts consume their days.

Carrying my little Zambian bundle of joy on my back, African-style

And with this gratitude, comes the sincere appreciation for having someone to share the experience with. Lots of people ask me how I could ever want to spend 400 consecutive days, every waking minute, with my husband. My thought: how could I not? Of course there are days when we’re more on par with the Costanza’s than the Brady’s, but this experience as a couple has been more profound than our thirteen years together combined. There have been so many moments of sheer bliss on this trip, when we pinch each other, knowing we are living our dream. But it’s been the trying moments, the weak and vulnerable times together, that have been the most meaningful. Catching each other’s watery eyes from across the taxi as we drive through the slums of Mumbai, laying awake together at night pondering the plight of the Burmese, a squeeze of the hand as we look down together in the alley at the families in Buenos Aires fumbling through our trash and watching each other coddle the orphans in Zambia as if they were our own, these are the moments I’ll cherish. These are the times when those often hidden layers of ourselves are revealed. Seeing each other react to a kind of helplessness and desperation that we before couldn’t have even imagine existed, it somehow connects us on a deeper level.

My close friends and family who have a real understanding of what this journey has been have expressed a bit of concern on how we will handle getting back. “How are you ever going to adjust to reality?” they ask. The thing is, I guess, our reality somehow seems different. We’ve opened our world and aren’t about to close the book.

My Zambian kids said it best. Gyrating their hips and tapping the water pump to the beat of the latest Zambian hip-hop song, they sang to me: “Bring it back now, bring it, bring it back now!” And that’s exactly what we plan to do. We’re going to bring these lessons, this global perspective, the heightened state of awareness, back home with us. It’s not going anywhere.

A week from now I’ll be standing in an airport again, ready to board that last transcontinental flight. Something tells me that backpack is going to rest a bit easier on my shoulders and those jeans just might feel a bit funny on my hips.

Some people grow up knowing they want to be a doctor or pilot. I grew up knowing I wanted to see the world. After 14 months on the road, I have to say: I’ve only just begun.