"The map," philosopher Alfred Korzybski famously observed, "is not the territory." His words rarely seemed more apt than in Cuba: a country where the warmth of the people and the beauty of the landscape belie fifty years of bad American press.

As U.S. travel restrictions to Cuba loosen up, more and more travelers will fall in love with our island neighbor to the south. They will discover, as I did, that there are many kinds of social experiments, and that the one in progress since Cuba's 1959 revolution is in some ways better, and in some ways worse, than the one that began with our own Revolution in the 18th century.

They'll also find that a traveler in Cuba has two main choices where to stay: at one of the clean, often charming hotels located near each town's main plaza; or at a casa particular, the home of a Cuba family authorized to rent rooms out to foreigners. The latter is a wonderful way to meet Cubans, butcher Spanish in a forgiving atmosphere, and gain insights into Cuba's often bipolar society.

And the equation, of course, can work both ways: Sometimes it's the Cubans themselves who are transformed by their visitors.

This is exactly what happened to Julio Muñoz, Cuba's best-known horse whisperer.

[Flickr photo credit: Charles Haynes]

Waiting at the ticket booth to Narayanhiti -- Nepal's Royal Palace -- I felt like a Chinese commoner entering the Forbidden City for the first time. It's not too much of a stretch. Nepali Kings, like Chinese Emperors, were touted as divine rulers: avatars of the Hindu god Narayana, the Great Preserver.

Ever since my first visit to Kathmandu in 1979, I had glimpsed Narayanhiti only through its high gates, or past the tall trees that shelter the grounds from view. But in February 2009 -- less than a year after the former Kingdom became a Republic -- the private residence was converted into a public museum.

Nepal was under royal rule for most of the past 500 years. What we need here, just to get it out of the way, is a brief history of Nepal's king situation over the past 50-odd years.

In 1955, King Mahendra took the throne. He was an interesting guy who enjoyed black-and-white photography, admired Elvis Presley, and teased his subjects with the notion of democracy. Mahendra and the former kings didn't live in Narayanhiti; they stayed in the old palace, or durbar, in what's now Kathmandu's historic quarter.

Shortly after Mahendra died in 1972, his eldest son -- Birendra -- was coronated, and moved into the recently completed Narayanhiti. As a leader Birendra was rather like George W. Bush, but without the wit and charm. The intelligentsia got fed up and in 1990, a massive "Peoples' Movement" wrested power from the throne. But Birendra remained on as king; he was allowed to stay in Narayanhiti with his wife and family, serving as a unifying symbol of ethnically diverse Nepal. When he was killed in 2001 (more on this below), his brother, Gyanendra, took over. Nobody liked this guy -- so in 2008 there was another People Power revolution. Gyanendra was shown the door, and the Palace became a museum. Whew.

One of the great pleasures a traveler can have is to re-discover a place that has become a little too familiar -- a once exotic city where the thrill of visiting long-loved shrines and favorite restaurants has devolved into pleasant, predictable routine.

My great friend Annie, a brilliant artist who has worked as a graphic designer in the Thai capital for 20 years, had set herself a challenge: to give her husband Jock, as a 10th anniversary gift, a new perspective on the metropolis they'd lived in together since the 1990s. She was one of the few farangi who could pull off such a feat. Fluent in Thai and enthralled with the culture, Annie is intimate with facets of old Krung Thep that most travelers never get to see.

A few weeks later, I visited Bangkok for a few days on my way to Kathmandu. The anniversary had passed, and Jock was out of town. But Annie, bubbling with the glee she brings to every activity from painting to shopping, offered to reprise their expedition.

It was an autumn evening. We met at 6 pm at the Black Canyon Coffee stall in the Phrom Phong SkyTrain station, and set off on a journey through the nocturnal byways – obscure and otherwise -- of a maddening, fascinating city that, after three decades of following a Habitrail, I comically thought I knew.

Annie (or "Plannie" to her friends) had mapped out our route. We rode the sleek SkyTrain to the dock at Silom, and boarded the river ferry. As we motored down the Chao Phrya river, the sun set through the haze behind Wat Arun, the Temple of Dawn. The four spires of the Buddhist pagoda soared into the sky, one of Bangkok's most breathtaking sights. I spied what looked like a beautiful private home, or boutique hotel, on the far shore. "Hey, Annie," I remarked, "that place looks interesting...."