Aside from the ongoing controversy surrounding his 1885 novel “Huckleberry Finn,” Mark Twain is one of America’s most admired writers.

In fact, “Huckleberry Finn” is said to be one of the first books banned in the United States. And it continues to be banned in many places to this very day.

The reason? There are several, actually. The most common, though, is Twain’s use of what’s commonly referred to as the N-word. What gets lost in the furor is Twain’s intent, which is – in his cynical way – to point a critical finger at life in the antebellum South while asking his readers to consider what it means to be free.

This is a travel blog, though, so let me get to a more relevant point. The reason I mention Twain is because of what he wrote in his 1869 travel book “The Innocents Abroad, or, The New Pilgrim's Progress.” In it he states the most obvious aspect about the value of travel that you’re apt to find anywhere.

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts,” Twain wrote. “Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.”

I try to keep that quote in mind when I’m abroad, even if it’s not always easy to do. As glamorous as it can be, travel – particularly international travel – often can be hard going.

Dealing with the demands of the airline industry, the hassle of going through security, the troubles that a lack of language ability can cause, along with all the other potential hazards that crop up while navigating your way through a foreign country … the mix of it all can cause anyone to feel out of sorts.

And don’t get me started on jetlag, which for me makes the first several days of any trip to Europe, Asia or Australia feel like some kind waking dream – and hardly ever a pleasant one. At the same time, certain situations that I’ve faced also have, at times, made travel an emotionally draining exercise.

Take the night one summer in 1973 when I was part of a student group that was visiting a small Mexican village. Set just outside of Guadalajara, the village was engaged in some sort of celebration – just exactly what I can’t recall – and our teachers took us there to soak up the culture.

 Amid all the firecrackers and food and drink, we did just that, testing our elementary Spanish skills in the process. That is, I did until I saw something that still angers me. A middle-age Mexican man, clearly drunk, took a swipe at a stray dog – kicking it square in the ribs and sending it yipping down a side street.

What made matters worse was that, as he strutted away, the man laughed. Talk about getting a look at the dark side of a community’s culture.

Attitudes of the people we meet are one thing. The environment in which they live is something else. Media reports about China typically mention how bad the air is, which is no exaggeration. During a 2007 trip to Xi’An, home of the fabled Bingmayong (Terra Cotta Army), the smog was so thick that my wife Mary Pat Treuthart and I could barely make out the buildings just across the street from our hotel.

Still, as bad as the air in China can be, it’s no match for what you’re likely to find in India. During our 2013 visit, whether we walked through an outdoor New Delhi market, toured the grounds of the Taj Mahal in Agra, or rode the train that connects the two cities, we had trouble breathing air that was more brown than anything remotely blue.

But … enough with the negativity. On the plus side of international travel are the moments that author Twain emphasizes, which are the ones that tend to restore my faith in human nature.

For example, I still feel grateful to the many people, most recently in Spain, Portugal, Greece and Albania, who treated us with simple acts of kindness – from indulging our poor attempts to speak their language to offering us much-needed advice – all of which made our visits that much more enjoyable.

I’m still friends with a couple of men whom I met during the six-week stay in 2006 that Mary Pat and I spent in Kosovo. I’ve been warmed by the smiles of strangers, many of them young people from a number of countries whom we’ve passed by on the street.

Most of all, I remember the woman on Scotland’s Isle of Skye, someone whom my first wife (Freddie Jenkins) and I had chanced to meet outside a closed shop. It was cold, blustery evening in 1975 and we asked her where we might score a cup of hot tea.

She said she knew just the place. Then she led us to her friend’s house where we waited while she went inside. The door opened, another woman looked out at us before quickly closing the door. Strange, we thought. But just as we were about to walk away, the door opened again and the woman waved us in.

Over the next hour, a Scottish family of a half dozen or so, thrilled to play host to a pair of Americans, fed us tea and cake and peppered us with dozens of questions – all of which we were happy to answer.

Thinking back on that experience, I’m able to fend off my own Twain-like sense of cynicism. And I’m able to appreciate more of the writer’s “broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things.”

I’m fairly sure I’d have a lot more trouble embracing that view if I simply stayed at home – vegetating here in Spokane.