In the Brussels Hilton, even more so than in the cockpit, at last I felt like, well, an airline pilot, in that '60s movie, Pan Am captain sort of way. Qantas captains, I'm told, still receive a contractually guaranteed suite at every layover. Maybe that's true, maybe not, but sometimes on arrival the Hilton staff would ask us, "Who is the captain?" and offer him the choicest room. Once, after an especially late arrival and every room booked, even as a lowly second officer I was given a full suite with a six-person hot tub and eight-place dining table. The walls in that room, I'm sure, would have told stories of NATO generals. The dazzle of flying isn't totally buffed away; you just need to know where to find it. And it won't be at a HoJo's in Pensacola.

The windows at the Hilton don't open beyond a few inches. This, I take it, is a measure to keep guests from opening up their rooms to the vicious winds that constantly swirl through Belgium. One night, unable to unlock the fridge, I decided to put a sandwich and a Diet Coke (er, Coke Light in Eurospeak) in a laundry bag and hang them out the window to stay cold. Trying to maneuver my wrist through the gap, I lost my grip and down went my sandwich and soda, 23 stories to the street.

Antwerp, I'll insert here, is a prettier city than Brussels and a semi-regular day trip. Antwerp's gorgeous train station alone was worth the visit. Other routine excursions were to moody Ghent (St. Bavo's and a famous van Eyck), tourist-choked Brugge (Michelangelo's "Madonna and Child"), or the three-hour train to Amsterdam (everything else).

Whichever the city, Belgium's weather is perpetually gray, and fog wandering became my late-night layover custom. We'd touch down at BRU about 1 a.m., and what to do until the buffet at six? I'd change into my sneakers and head out solo for a long, multi-hour stroll through the pre-dawn mist -- past the Royal Palace and along the park; cutting left to the spectacular Grand-Place, with its gables and filigreed rooftops; up toward the Botanical Gardens and seedy Gar du Nord; then down the length of Waterloo.

The last of these red-eye constitutionals took place the night I had my arm smashed by a drunken Ethiopian vagrant. My elbow still aches from the contusion, having fallen backwards against the curb while dodging the man as he slashed at me. The stressful part wasn't the fall, or even the pre-dawn police car ride to a Belgian hospital, but having to call in sick for the trip home, a predicament that cost my airline untold thousands of dollars. The flight was delayed a full day in wait for my replacement, who had to be flown in from the States and legally rested.

I was given a ticket home on Sabena, and that's when it got fun. I'd done duty out of Brussels countless times, but there is something about taking that cab to the passenger terminal instead of the cargo ramp. And the thrill of adding another airline to my list. Sabena may have lacked the excitement of a Royal Jordanian or an Aeroflot, but boarding the big Airbus had my adrenaline going like the time in '86 when I rode that old Tupolev into Leningrad. A thrill, even stuck in coach, and even with my arm wrapped in gauze and dripping with orange anaesthetizing gel.

In the days after my injury, rumors of the mugging began to circulate, all of which were heavily exotified and none none of which I denied. Through whispered embellishment, versions included one where I was knocked unconscious by a gang of marauding Moroccans, and another where I was chased and beaten by a girl's pimp. "I heard some guy broke a bottle over your head."

If you're wondering: as veteran of four dozen countries, most of them off-the-clock leisure trips, a list of the author's all-time favorite hotels draws from a mix of layovers and vacations. I've stayed everywhere from a tent in the Kalahari to the Singapore YMCA, and I've come to prefer the less conventional venues --- rainforest lodges, independently run inns, boutiquey B&Bs. Those of you not used to far-flung travels should know of the remarkable deals to be had this way. On the secluded north coast of Bali last summer, a split-level hilltop cabin with balcony and view of the Java Sea cost $12 per night, including a home-cooked breakfast carried dutifully up the path each morning by the owner. Or the Kelebek Hotel, set amidst the bizarre scenery of Turkish Cappadocia. Forty dollars a night for all modern conveniences, handwoven rugs and beautiful Anatolian kilims -- in a room carved from rock.

Yet who am I to deny it: nothing is a more indulgent pleasure than a night or two in a gleaming five-star highrise. If Mexico's JW Marriott is forever my top choice, first runner-up has to be its namesake twin in Bangkok, Thailand. Coming from 14 days in Laos last month, the sudden comforts of bowing hostesses, daily fruit basket, and an orchid on my pillow, were lavish to the point of intimidation.

Bangkok is a frustrating, steam-cooked cauldron of a city. It's also home not only to some of the world's best hotels, but some of the best hotel deals. Two Marriotts, a Peninsula, a Shangri-La -- they're all here. And with some prudent haggling you can frequently snag a luxurious room, perhaps overlooking the Grand Palace or the mustard-colored Chao Phraya, for the cost of a parking lot view at the LAX Ramada.

If money is no object, the Burj Al Arab in Dubai, in the United Arab Emirates, bills itself the world's first seven star hotel. These star ratings are slippery and subjective, but the Burj's helicopter landing pad and "underwater seafood restaurant" might have something to do with it.

Finding a pornographic magazine in your hotel is called a "hit." If you bother to look, you'll uncover a dirty mag in about one of every 12 or 15 rooms. Look between the mattresses, though another common spot is in the bureau, beneath the drawers but still inside the frame. You have to pull the bottom drawer completely from its tracks.

Of course, this knowledge comes to me secondhand. That's my story and I'm sticking to it; I worked with a guy who'd been in the hotel business who showed me how to yank apart the bureaus and look inside. "It's pretty common," he explained. "The workers hide them in there." I have no idea which workers he was talking about, since the only ones with routine access to guests' chambers are the house cleaners, who, almost without exception, are women.

I never knew anybody to have scored a hit in the Mexico Marriott or the Brussels Hilton -- testament either to an undersexed clientele or a hardworking cleaning staff. Hits were common at places like the AmeriSuites in Miami, and one comes to sense a direct correlation between the character of the porno and that of the hotel. You might unearth a copy of Libido -- the Journal of Sex and Sensibility in a room at the San Fran Hyatt, while Juggs would be an appropriate discovery at the Sunrise on Long Island.

In Brussels the raunchiest option was a pick between Hilton's own in-house publication (this month featuring an interview with a fully clothed Wynona Ryder) or a free copy of the Economist.

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