"Travel writer" is consistently one of the most desired jobs in the world. Why? Because people think it consists of floating on a raft in a tropical sea, umbrella’d cocktail in hand, smiling up at a depthless blue sky with the partner of your choice by your side. Well, that can happen. And it has for me, once -- till the jellyfish attacked.

I’ve had the experience and good fortune to visit more countries than I can recall (especially when they change their names), and I’m afraid that I will burst your hot-air balloon by telling you that, just like being a movie, music or sports star, reality can kill fantasy. Truly, being a travel writer is a real mix of the great and the grating.

Let’s start with packing, which is-- especially when traveling to an unknown, remote or mixed-climate destination -- a miniversion of moving -- an activity that ranks on the stress level just below death. After all these years of traveling and logging roughly eight bazillionair miles, my wife still doesn’t know how to pack. "Hon," I venture, "do you need both swim fins and a down-filled parka?" "You never know," she replies, envisioning environmental extremes Al Gore couldn’t. Our negotiations end when she superglues a handle to the side of our house, announcing, "We’re packed!" And I know that I’ll have to lug luggage through a dozen ports of call and on and off rickshaws, canoes, oxcarts, overcrowded buses, moving trains, rickety planes, donkeys, camels and something that escaped from Star Wars.

Once packed (or, rather, jammed), we face the ever-changing vagaries of airport security. A .147 ounce of semigelatinous liquid must be contained in an optically correct bottle and then placed in a transparent bag no smaller than 12 liters. Pills must be individually signed by your doctor to be x-rayed while you are publicly strip-searched by flatliners incapable of logic or irony; transported convicts are subject to less. Does all the hassle equal safety? Every time you’ve ever heard of the apprehension of a would-be "air-rorist," it’s by the passengers!

When you’re through the gauntlet without going postal, you enter the level of hell tauntingly called "flight." Did you know that airline personnel refer to us passengers as "self-loading cargo" and to our schlep-ons -- which must be forced into glove-compartment-size bins high above -- as "refrigerators." I can see the crew’s disdain as they just stand there, haughtily watching, as spines compress and slipped bags result in the odd head crushing. Young parents with a single offspring impede the whole process with more support gear than required for space exploration. These same vigilant breeders inexplicably go deaf when seated and their child shrieks for the duration of the flight.

I have a friend who no longer travels because of children -- not his -- well, that and a severe nut allergy. I, on the other hand, willingly make a transoceanic ordeal wedged into my miniscule seat space (suitable solely for an involuntary yoga asana) with my face mashed up against an Adam Sandler movie on the seat-back monitor that has been reclined against my nose, betwixt the bawling babe and an expiring consumptive from the fourth act of a grand Italian opera. Noise-canceling headphones are useless against the onslaught -- but a dozen yards of cotton batting would be, too.

I have occasionally flown business or even first class on several airlines, and it’s not that much better: $10,000 for a cheap eye mask, puke-colored socks and the chance to land .00073 of a second faster than the masses seated behind you. I haven’t tried Singapore, whose ads seem to promise in-flight sex (and I thought hot hand towels were great!), nor Virgin, which, if they’ve truth in their advertising, is the closest I’d ever get to the rewards of Islamic martyrdom.

Nearing destination, I prepare for the country where I’ll be landing. The customs form will include invasive questions only a paranoid or perverse government employee would consider of import, such as "What drugs was your mother on when you were born?" "What despicable perversion involving guns and children will you engage in while our guest?" and "Are you bringing in more than $2 million USD of insect larva?" (In case you think I’m being "creative" with these examples, take a look at the U.S. visa form folk from Muslim nations have to fill out when they visit us.) Which reminds me. . .

In many Mideastern countries, final landing approach is the time to throw open all overhead bins and block the aisle with what resembles "instant bazaar." Safety rules are ignored, along with all concern for human life. I have personally witnessed a 300-pound man in an exiting frenzy trodding over the flattened remains of his 80-year-old mother. He immediately snapped to his senses, but it was too late: he was an orphan, with baggage.

Deplaning can be a harrowing experience. I boarded in the First World, down a carpeted, climate-controlled corridor, but disembark by shinnying down a sisal rope, carry-on and laptop in hand. The landing surface is a primordial mud swamp or a sea of boiling tarmac with the terminal (very word appropriate) roughly half the distance of Moses’ trek with the Israelites. Sardined like refugees in an open-sided shed with a corrugated tin roof (loud in rain, broiling with sun), I get milled through two hours of immigration and customs as an official welcome.

Then there’s the stampede of unsolicited helpers tearing at my belongings for the costly privilege of taking me to the hotel of their choice in an unroadworthy vehicle cobbled together from multiple recycled parts. Travel through the city is either a video-game race or a fume-filled parking lot at a geologic pace further halted by local cops seeking bribes or, if desperate enough, cigarettes and food.

And, when I finally arrive . . . "This isn’t my hotel." "That burned down." "The Ritz?" "This is it." "I thought you just said it burned down." "This is better."

I’ve learned with hotels that there is no bottom on the bottom end and, in some countries, a star rating is limited only by the number the establishment can buy.

But even the very best hotels can be problematic. Let’s compare and contrast the differences between the star-studded top-of-the-line hotels and their less celestial counterparts. The lobbies of the starred awe you with Albert Speer architecture (minus the warmth) and a receptionist with a superior attitude and knowledge of your name, whereas at the basic/local establishment, no one’s on duty and there’s an odd smell in the air -- possibly from the bodies draped over the shredded furniture.

In the big hotel, the elevator computer announces the floors in Esperanto and the numberless access buttons are color coded in shades of off-white. At the other end of the lodging spectrum, it’s an eight-story walk-up, with the last two consisting of a homemade ladder.

The luxury suite’s 3-meter TV is on loudly, the air conditioning controls are in incomprehensible symbols, and there’s more storage space than in the national archives. In the local joint, there’s a mattress of dubious age and hygiene, an intermittently working 20-watt bare lightbulb, a busted plastic stool, and one wire hanger (broken). The "chocolate on the pillow" . . . is a roach.

The luxury bathroom features a car wash of showerheads with valve controls by Jules Verne in a 30-by-50-foot room without a usable countertop (it’d spoil the look of the lines), whereas the dive’s facilities are down the hall, out the door and into the woods (bring your own TP and protective weaponry). And as for the view, the high end’s is the curvature of the Earth, and at the affordable’s, it’s "What window?"

To sum up: travel can be difficult and the subsequent work hard.

When I am out of the country, I am in the field and on the job. That means, regardless of jetlag, incredible distractions and time of day or night, I’ve got to take professional photos, make notes and maintain a level of hyperawareness not customarily found outside of active guerilla fighters.

"Then why bother, when you do more bellyaching than if you’d drunk directly from the Ganges!?" you think . . . or possibly say if you move your lips while reading.

Because for all the problems mentioned here and many more, it is worth it, for travel journalism is a good life with incredible experiences . . . once in country. I’ve seen a moon close enough to touch over a shimmering sea on a remote Pacific isle; I’ve mushed a dogsled through a bracing blizzard across a mountaintop glacier in Alaska; I’ve quaffed cobra wine in a massage parlor with Vietcong veterans; I’ve climbed an active volcano in South America, boated on most of the legendary rivers of the world, ridden everything from elephants to bulls and most forms of pedaled and motorized conveyance. I’ve seen the Topkapi Palace in Istanbul, the Louvre in Paris, the Alhambra palace/fortress in Granada, six coliseums and one pope. I’ve dined on caviar as well as on deep-fried m’uapong, a large cockroach-type insect, which is very popular in parts of Thailand. I’ve shopped in London and haggled in the native marketplaces of 30 different countries. I’ve been wonderfully lost in the desert and in the jungle and at the airport in Tel Aviv. I’ve been conned by street touts, bilked by shopkeepers, and, in complete role reversal, had a gun pulled on me by a crazed cabbie. And I’ve learned from it all.

I have also laughed in a dozen languages and been delighted by village children, charmed by wizened elders, surprised by little unexpected moments as memorable as grand planned ones. I’ve been drawn into evanescent cultures by the indigenous beauty of blackened teeth, plucked hair and ritual scarification. I’ve marveled at the arts, crafts, dance, drama and daily rituals of people, different but like me. I’ve lounged in palaces and bivouacked in tents. I’ve awakened in places I don’t remember going to sleep in, marveled at a new day in the oldest of places, and mourned the dying of the light in a setting of natural or man-made majesty. I’ve dreaded adventure only to be seduced by surprise, gone diving to see clownfish and wound up swimming with sharks, gone for a walk that suddenly mutated into a quest for survival. I’ve stood at the feet of a massive golden Buddha, stared up at lofty minarets, admired the quiet elegance of ancient synagogues, and been awestruck at the ruins of once-great civilizations whose gods have long been forgotten.

Yes, for me, it is all well worth it.

Oh, and by the way, the second question that everyone asks is, "Where y’ going next?" It doesn’t matter that I’ve just said, "I’m just back from the moon." You’d think there’d be at least a follow-up of "How was it?" but, no, it’s on to the next.

FYI: it’s Syria.