Clinging to the time-honored American tradition of grand re-entrances (and like a malevolent phantom lunging at you through your computer screen), I have returned. Didja miss me, huh?

Apologies for the disappearance but over the last few months I have been out touring my conspicuous act and feeding my inner hobo. Maybe you heard about that psychotic man who rode the Bus 2 Antarctica? Yeah [nonchalant hair toss], that was me. Or that intrepid explorer who snapped a picture of the super rare all-black penguin and sold it to all the British tabloids? Yeah, that was me too. And the guy who revolutionized Twitter? Well no, actually, that was Ashton Kutcher . . .

But yeah, I'm back from my epic journey to Antarctica with all kinds of fun facts, like the slowest way between any two points on a map and 101 effective toilet paper substitutes at all-night Peruvian truck stops. Boys and girls, ladies and gents! I have traveled the world and (drum roll) . . . hit all seven continents like a redneck hammering plastic gophers at the county fair. I have come full circle and who did I find waiting for me patiently at the dock, heavily lipsticked and with daisies in hand? Gadling: my dear sweet, doe-eyed darling Gadling.

So, kill the fatted calf and pull up a bean bag chair! Gadling's prodigal son has come back to the fold, poised at my typewriter and ready to bang out nifty travel stories for your ongoing reading pleasure. Beware of good times ahead: it's gonna be just like that book "Oh the Places You'll Go!", only so much trippier.

As we take time to count our travel sins of the past decade, I get all teary-eyed and indecisive. Where to begin? Couldn't we just say "Iraq" and be done with it? And are we including food mistakes? 'Cuz I got some real doozies: how about shrimp ceviche from a quaint Mexican beach cafe or fresh cut watermelon in India? Uh, those would be travel mistakes, no? But like, since we're trying to refrain from the scatological (are we?), I choose to relate the following story of which I may or may not have played a small cameo role:

Once upon a time, there were two young men working in Brussels, preparing to embark on a business trip to poor, struggling, deprived Eastern Europe. Filled with kindness and goodwill, the two decided they would add a charitable purpose to their journey by driving across Europe in their vehicle--a beige, 1975 Mercedes with a good 250,000 km under her belt--and filling it with used office computers to give away to the lesser half of the digital divide.

in order to ease their way through the red tape of certain notorious Eastern European countries, the boss of the young men lent them a pair of expired diplomatic license plates, which (in Euro-capital Brussels) tends to grant you permission to do whatever you want: park on the sidewalk, speed a little bit, drive like a maniac, etc. So, the young men screwed on the two red license plates and set off on their grand cross-European adventure.

Feeling confident with their special diplomatic status, the young men parked in the city center of lovely Budapest for a break. They wandered about for hours sightseeing and upon returning, discovered not one, but TWO parking tickets fluttering from the car's windshield wiper. As they wrung their hands with worry for this small misfortune, a Hungarian policeman approached them, pointing out the fresh car ticket and asking for additional information. Immediately after that, a second Hungarian policeman approached from the rear, pointing to the second parking ticket.

Christmas in New Zealand is so different than back home. For one, it's hot--really hot, so people tend not to stay indoors around a fake pine tree. Instead, families head to the beach where they camp in droves, eat ham, play cricket, drink a bit of this and that and swim, swim, swim. Also, the endemic Pohutukawa tree is in bloom, painting bursts of bright red stamens all over the place--it's absolutely beautiful and the quintessential sign that it's Christmastime in New Zealand.

For a wee taste of Christmas down under, Kiwi-style, I wandered around this campsite on a beach in New Zealand's Bay of Plenty with a video camera. It's candid and random, but oh so real.

Where do people go when they've already been everywhere? On a ship that goes to places nobody else can get to. The MV Orion is such a ship, custom-built for expedition-style travel that takes you to the world's more inaccessible places--place like Papua New Guinea, Australia's wild northwestern Kimberley coastline, the remote corners of Indonesia, the lesser-known side of Antarctica, and as was my good fortune, the uninhabited windswept islands of New Zealand's sub-antarctic. In English, those islands are: Macquarie Island, Campbell Island, Auckland Islands, the Snares, and Stewart Island--all forgotten bits of rock and shrubs in the Southern Ocean. Places where birds outnumber humans by about a million to one and if it's not raining, then it's about to.

It takes a certain kind of traveler to embark on such a voyage. This is not your typical spring break cruise to St. Thomas. Yes, there is a lounge with a talented musical act that plays late into the night. Yes, there is a spiral staircase near the bow with shiny brass handrails and a glass elevator shooting up to the top deck. Yes, the cruise director makes announcements on the loudspeaker ("dress warmly "), and yes, one eats abundantly and well (the food is extraordinary), however . . . there are some key differences.

While every city council and national tourist board seems to know the equation gay + traveler = big bucks, the central African nation of Uganda wants none of it. A controversial bill may soon pass that would not only outlaw homosexuality, but would also impose the death penalty against certain "offenders" and make it criminal to not report known homosexuals.

Whence in Africa, most gay travelers know to keep it on the down low, however the new legislation would be sure to sniff them out by criminalizing anyone who "aids, abets, counsels or procures another to engage in acts of homosexuality". If convicted, people who know gay people would face seven years in prison. That includes hotel owners and landlords who rent rooms to homosexuals.

So forget Utah, the gay witch hunt of the century will occur in lovely Uganda, land of gun-toting child missionaries and toxic breasts.

Those of us who travel to Bethlehem soon discover the huge gap between our happy Sunday School expectations and the heavy realities of visiting the West Bank in person. It's not such an easy place to get to, though world interest makes Bethlehem far more accessible than say, Ramallah or Jericho.

Out of 133 destinations rated in this month's issue of National Geographic Traveler, the West Bank's little town of Bethlehem ranked the lowest. Sad but true, travel experts consider the birthplace of Jesus Christ to be the world's worst travel destination, one that's surrounded by a giant concrete wall with difficult checkpoints and generally tangled in a political rat's nest.

Still, for those in search of a geographically-correct Christmas, Bethlehem offers a nice dose of nostalgia served with a serious side of political pondering. It's also a bit of a circus, like Las Vegas with Franciscan monks and machine guns. In such a place, it helps to have a guide. In lieu of a bright star shining in the east, behold ten hints for helping you navigate the dark streets that shineth:

Today, Qantas announced it's intention to ratchet up their existing recycling program to include eight and a half million bottles, cups, tumblers and cans per year--and that's just from their domestic flights. Qantas will also add paper, cardboard and glass to their program including material used in some of the Qantas Club airport lounges.

The new initiative aims to reduce the airline's landfill contributions by 25 percent before 2011. Most airlines already have some kind of recycling program in place, however this new effort represents a higher standard that will hopefully inspire some of the lazier companies to move forward. Anything to making air travel a little less awful for the environment.

Have you ever had an obese, wild baby elephant seal drop its head in your lap and slobber nose love all over you? It melts a heart faster than a Snickers in a microwave, really.

Macquarie Island (pronounced mak-worry) is Australia's southernmost point, a tiny spit of an island some 940 miles (1,500 km) southeast of Tasmania. For you mariners out there that's a three-day sail from Hobart-past the roaring 40s and into the furious 50s. The island is only about twenty miles long and two miles across-a lonely scrap of sub-antarctic landscape consisting of pointed grassy slopes and rocky beaches where mist lingers all the day long.

Discovered in 1810 by wayward sealers, Macquarie was kept a secret in order that they get rich quick from the magnificent seal colonies living on the island. In 1811, the first ship to arrive in Sydney from Macquarie carried almost 57,000 seal skins. Today, the descendants of these piles of skins still tumble along the salt and pepper sand, bellowing out the unique throaty growl of the adult elephant seal. It's quite a sight. Forget all your images of Australia's man-eating crocodiles and creepy snakes and spiders. Here is a different kind of nature reserve where the local attraction grows to 20 feet long, weighs more than three tons, and spends most of the day sleeping on the beach.

Watch out world, 'cuz here comes Panama--that skinny little land-bridge of a country that's famous for straw hats, yellow-fever infestations and American meddling.

Just how skinny a country is it? From the time the pilot lowers the landing gear to the time your flight actually lands in Panama City, that's how much. One minute you're looking down at the turquoise Caribbean and exactly four and a half minutes later, you've landed on the other side of the country, where--if you can see past the skyscrapers--you'll observe mammoth cargo ships lining up in the Pacific Ocean to enter the canal.

Imagine a 13-year old mixed-race girl from a broken home who spends her childhood in a reform school later to discover that her abusive deadbeat father left her a massive trust fund. That's Panama: young and eager, a little messed up, filling out nicely . . . and ridiculously rich.

Now that Panama gets to keep the cash she earns from her famous canal, the country has gained the kind of newfound respectability that comes from having new clothes and holding democratic elections. Witnessing Panama's overnight transition from banana republic to middle-class retirement haven is like watching the Univision version of Extreme Makeover: it feels so tacky but you can't change channels because you just have to find out what happens next.

Last week we followed up on AP reports here and here that hundreds of icebergs were headed straight for dear, sweet New Zealand. Well, come to find out, it's TRUE. Behold the following images that prove it, taken by myself from the port side of the good ship Orion this morning. I'm out at sea, several hundred miles south of South Island, but still very much in New Zealand.

The icebergs appeared on the horizon near 52º S and we steered as close as we could get (about a third of a mile) in order to catch a closer look safely. Smaller ice chunks were floating in the distance and there were seabirds roosting on top of them. Since that time I have seen several more groups of icebergs on the horizon. Don't you just love when the news comes true?