Ever dream about visiting seven countries in one trip? Join us on our 21,623-mile adventure.

It was inevitable. We were going to experience a glitch — or depending on who’s telling the story, a major screw-up.

For the first three countries, we glided through our itinerary with the greatest of ease. Our only delay lasted barely an hour, and the aircraft ended up leaving Stockholm before the estimated departure time posted on the overhead screen. My blood pressure didn’t even have a chance to rise.

And then we arrived in the Seychelles.

A little background info: We had planned an outing from Mahe, the largest island in the East African archipelago and our home base, to Praslin, a nearby isle with a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The agent in the States told us to be ready for an 8 a.m. pickup; a representative at the Seychelles airport said the driver would come at 9. After processing the schedule change, I flashed Jabin an ecstatic expression usually affiliated with winning the lottery. Our Powerball ticket number: an extra hour of sleep.

The morning of our excursion, I was luxuriating in bed, gazing dreamily at the palm trees outside my window, when I heard a knock and a stranger’s voice telling Jabin that our ride was here. I checked my phone — 7 a.m. — and rushed to the front door to speak with the innkeeper. She said the plane was taking off shortly; we had to leave N-O-W.

I don’t want to point fingers, but okay, I will: The airport employee gave us incorrect details. But my phone was also to blame: It was still on Madagascar time, an hour behind. We ended up missing the flight plus the next one plus the ferry, an alternate mode of inter-island travel. At the airport, we added our names to the standby list for the 11:30 departure. I slumped down in the plastic chair, feeling like a delinquent student in the principal’s office. My punishment: no trip to Praslin that day (we attempted the outing the next day, and succeeded).

Instead of wallowing, we turned the mishap upside-down. We drove (on the left side, a remnant of British rule) to Victoria (all hail Queen V), where we spent a sunny-rainy-sunny afternoon. The compact capital mixes the styles of past colonial powers with the colors and textures of the African culture. A symphony of English, French and Creole drifts through the streets.

We set out in search of a souvenir, eschewing goods made in China for the homemade crafts at the Cooperative des Artisans, which the British established in the 1930s to promote local talent. I hovered around the raffia baskets and handbags woven by three elderly ladies, but Jabin nixed the idea: The delicate handiwork would never survive the crush of travel, especially in the overhead bins. The shopkeeper suggested a more durable wood carving that was the size of a mini-bagel and resembled — well, let’s just say a placard in the palm forest on Praslin describes the seed’s form as “pornographic.” The piece is a diminutive replica of Lodoicea, the largest coconut in the world, which grows only in the Seychelles. The government protects and regulates the giant nut, which sells for hundreds of dollars. I would need thousands more rupees to purchase the real thing, plus a bowling bag to transport it home.

Coconuts are a recurring theme on the islands. Our traditional dish, which we sampled at the Bonbon Plume restaurant on Praslin, was chicken coconut curry (pass on the fruit bat). For our landmark, we hiked around Vallee de Mai Nature Reserve (the UNESCO site), one of only two locations in the country where the coco de mer palm, the parent of that husky coconut, grows. I kicked around rugby-ball-size coconuts on the white-sand beaches and noticed coconut ice cream’s high placement on menus.

On the ferry back to Mahe, I watched the palm trees on the shoreline shrink to pencil-height. The sky set off red and orange flares. Halfway through the journey, passengers clutching white bags rushed into the open air. I offered them a consoling smile and then turned my gaze toward the sunset and beyond — to India, our next destination.

I knew that we had been making serious headway around the world when I started to recognize the pilots’ names (why, it’s captain Patrick of Air Seychelles again), stopped calculating the time change (I set my clock to “Now”) and was close to memorizing my passport number (448*******). Another sign: At our next destination, the top item on our laundry list of activities was actually doing laundry.

Before departing Washington, Jabin and I had agreed to pack light, so that we could avoid checking bags. We hoped that our limited but thoughtful choices would carry us through the extreme poles of the thermometer — the layer-to-strip approach. But dirt, sweat and lemur licks happen. We had planned to wash our clothes in the Seychelles, until we learned that the nearest facility was on a different island. By the time we reached Mumbai, after a nearly five-hour flight, we were desperate for a washer and dryer. Jabin was surviving on two sets of underwear and socks, a white T-shirt and one pair of shorts. I was trying to protect three clean dresses from being contaminated by shorts covered in red mud and brambles, a skirt encrusted with the salt of the Indian Ocean and a bathing suit smelling of sulphur.

Before setting out to explore Mumbai, a financial center bedazzled by Bollywood, we considered our options. We could pay for the hotel’s itemized laundry service (sample price: $2 per undergarment), wash by hand in the tub (Jabin had a six-pack of Tide) or introduce a few new pieces into our tightly curated wardrobe. But any additions could feasibly throw off our delicate luggage ecosystem. (Prior to India, we had been very prudent with our purchases, buying only palm-size or flat gifts.) Jabin scrubbed several items, taking a chance that they would dry before we departed two days later. I, meanwhile, decided to see what Mumbai was sending down the runway this season.

South Mumbai sits at the tip of the city and could easily dip a big toe into the Arabian Sea to cool off. Many of the precinct’s buildings remember the British Raj well, such as the Gateway of India, which was built in 1924 to mark a visit by King George V and Queen Mary. Crowds of tourists, many from around India, congregate around the landmark to snap photos of one another and the odd Westerner (I now appear in more than a dozen family photos, including one in which I am holding someone’s wiggly baby) to commemorate special moments such as weddings and anniversaries (look for the women in red) or to catch the ferry to the Elephanta Caves, an ancient stone gallery of carvings of Hindu gods, with real cows and monkeys in attendance.

Long ribbons of shops and stalls unfurl behind the Taj Mahal Palace, the stately hotel across the street from the archway. On the way to Shahid Bhagat Singh Road to buy jangly bangles, we met a feisty woman in an aquamarine sari who anointed herself our shopping guide. She led us to a closet-size store lined with bolts of fabric. Jabin selected a textile and a style, then stood as still as a mannequin while an assistant took his measurements. The proprietor told us to return for the shirt after 5 p.m. In the bridging hours, we promenaded along Colaba Causeway, buying Kashmir shoes from this vendor, a cotton dress with its own ventilation system (butterfly sleeves) from that one, and a few outfits from Fabindia, a chain store that specializes in handcrafted creations. Come sundown, we definitely had clean clothes. I didn’t even care if I spilled biryani from Bademiya, a neighborhood restaurant, on myself. I had a bagful of replacements.

Before heading back to the hotel with our packages, we took a seat at a beauty salon and held out our palms. An artist drew flowers, tendrils, paisleys and dewdrops on my wrist and hand. Per request, she inked a camera aimed at a bride on Jabin’s skin. She explained that mehndi is a traditional adornment for betrothed-to-bes, who will typically cover the area from their fingertips to their elbows and their toes to their calves. The plant-based dye also contains salubrious properties that can calm individuals about to embark on a stressful adventure, such as marriage or packing for the Singapore leg of a jaunt around the globe.

My ears relaxed first, then the rest followed. No one was blaring their horns or raising their voices above the sleeping-baby decibel. We were in Singapore, a timeout between the contact sports of India and Hong Kong.

After the aural jackhammer of Mumbai, the hush of the island city-state was as soothing as a pair of velvet noise-cancellation headphones. Riding in a cab after a 5½-hour overnight flight from India, I eased into the back seat and listened to the soft-spoken driver point out attractions along the route (Botanic Gardens, Sri Mariamman Hindu temple) and recommend activities (the theme parks on Sentosa Island, shopping on Orchard Road). After he took a wrong turn to the hotel, he pulled over and turned off the meter as an apology. Jabin and I had less than 30 hours on the ground, and I could have easily spent all of it cruising around in his quiet car.

By now, we were accustomed to bumbling around in a state of partial-zombie, and we knew exactly what we needed to rejoin the living: kaya toast. The breakfast food is seemingly found on every block and eaten at any hour. We sought out the most authentic version, returning to early-20th-century Singapore for a taste. (The pocket-size restaurant resides in a mall at People’s Park Centre, so time travel required a fair bit of imagination.)

Ya Kun Kaya Toast, a chain with more than 50 outlets Asia-wide, was founded by Loi Ah Koo, an immigrant from China’s Hainan Island who worked at a coffee stall, serving the characters of the day: laborers, merchants, boat operators, money-lenders. In the spirit of entrepreneurship, he and his wife started selling a happier morning meal of grilled toast slathered with kaya jam, a spread of eggs, coconut milk, sugar and pandan leaf, with a cold pat of butter inserted in the middle. Two soft-boiled eggs and a cup of coffee or tea accompanied the short stack of slices.

Jabin took a bite of the sweet bread.

“It would be really good. . .” he began to say.

“Jet-lag food?” I interjected.

“Hangover food,” he continued. “I really wish they could put bacon on it. Then I’d be set.”

Singapore’s population is comprised of three main ethnic groups: Chinese, Indian and Malay. In Chinatown, lanterns hang like plump red moons over narrow lanes. Shops sell a dizzying array of souvenirs. Signs urge binge-buying: one for $4, three for $10. The Merlion is Singapore’s mascot, and the hybrid lion-fish appears on every imaginable (and even un-) object, including poker-chip lighters, clocks, thermometers and sets of olive forks. I browsed the shelves of Merlion-shaped edibles, resisting the pack mentality for a single sleeve of gold-wrapped chocolates. I also picked up some locally made Tiger Balm ointment to help alleviate a cold that ended our healthy streak.

Meandering through Singapore was therapeutic. The streets are vacuum-clean, and the buildings glisten in the sunlight. The tropical temperature is set on steam room. As I decimated my face towelette supply, I imagined that I was purifying, not perspiring.

On my stroll to the Singapore Flyer, the world’s largest observation wheel outside the United States, I detoured at an open-air food court (the heat made me do it) and ordered a longan chin chow. The mound of shaved ice wore a cap of grass jelly cubes, tropical fruit and mystery beads that popped like candy caviar. The dish turned into a puddle, and I had to switch from spoon to slurp.

In our dwindling hours, Jabin and I squeezed in a visit to the Buddha Tooth Relic Temple and Museum, which houses one of the spiritual teacher’s pearly whites in a solid gold stupa. I lit a stick of incense and contemplated my wish. I could have asked for a quick recovery from my sneezing and coughing, but I didn’t want to squander the moment. Instead, I called on Tiger Balm to heal my health. I applied the ointment before our flight to

Hong Kong, thereby freeing up Buddha to take care of the rest.

Hong Kong welcomed us with a dance party in the street. In the SoHo neighborhood, bars blasted the universal playlist of Britney, Bieber and Bruno, a siren call for the multinational revelers to down shots delivered by syringe and peel off their shirts. I looked over at Jabin, who was eating tacos, and suggested that we skip sleeping on our final night. We could dine, drink, boogie, grab our bags and go straight to the airport. He told me that pulling an all-nighter was one of the best ideas I’d had since we started our epic journey. And I thought booking us aisle seats had been my finest moment.

The leg that had seemed so far off had finally landed at our feet. After a four-hour flight from Singapore, we had only two full days left in our final destination. We could’ve eased up on the sightseeing, but no: We were going to push ourselves to near-exhaustion. Extreme fatigue was the ideal condition for the 14½-hour flight home.

The autonomous territory off the southern coast of China pulsated like Manhattan or Bangkok. The gritty, textured city brimmed with discoveries, curiosities and dramatic vignettes. Shadowy alleyways appeared like film noir settings for a shootout or an illicit kiss. Breathing in the warm air felt like guzzling an energy drink spiked with something harder.

Our walk from the hotel to the subway station turned into a much-needed workout. We climbed steep staircases, traversed cramped lanes and skirted obstacles — specifically, pods of slow walkers glued to their gadgets. We rode the subway (public transportation, a first for us) to Lantau Island and boarded a cable car to Tian Tan Buddha, a giant bronze statue perched cross-legged atop Mount Muk Yue. I peered through the glass floor and noticed a lone hiker wobbling on the trail below. We shared the compartment with a family, and the couple’s child stomped on the trees, just missing the trekker’s head.

By the time we reached the top, Jabin was hungry, and I was still vegetarian. Our positions dovetailed at the Po Lin Monastery, which serves a multi-course lunch of vegetables, tofu and rice. Afterward, we scaled 260 steps to the Big Buddha, who gazed at us beneath drowsy lids. A woman asked Jabin to snap her photo. She held up two sheets of paper on which she had written “Hong” and “Kong.”

“I am traveling around Asia and Europe until my money runs out,” she said. “It should last for a year.” The adventurer, who hails from Vietnam, was sending the images to her father, who was undergoing dialysis and could travel with her only in spirit.

[Trip around the world: Snaps from Hong Kong]

We stayed up late wandering around Mong Kok, a teeming commercial district that keeps insomniac’s hours and is illuminated like a Lite-Brite board. At the Ladies’ Market, a night bazaar with more than 100 stalls, we perused cheap trinkets that were most likely made in the Motherland. (We ended up buying our souvenir — a tea cover, chopsticks and a rest stand shaped like a local mountain range — from Goods for Desire, an Urban Outfitters-style retailer founded in Hong Kong.) Jabin dared to sample foods — a spicy tomato noodle soup, ice cream in mystery flavors — that could have resulted in a trip to the first-aid kit.

Our last meal in Hong Kong, and for our entire ’round-the-world journey, almost didn’t happen. During our quest for dim sum, the first two restaurants we tried said they stopped serving the small plates at 4 p.m. We rushed to another dining spot, arriving just in time to order six dishes.

“You are so excited,” a diner told us. “You are acting like you are going to a first-class restaurant.”

During the mango-pudding course, a waitress mopped around our table. I skated out the front door.

We returned to SoHo and joined the throng of celebrants gripping cocktails and wearing headbands with blinking lights. We took several laps around the track of bars and then climbed onto a wall overlooking the Bacchanalian scene. Hong Kong was gearing up for a long night, and we were in no rush to leave.