Taxi into town. Quick look. Taxi back. Next!

On the way there I refused. On the way back I relented: OK, we could break the gruelling Sydney to London flight with a one-day stopover in the Malaysian capital Kuala Lumpur. This is how we spent our time: two and a half hours inside a people carrier being carted from the world's most remote airport into Kuala Lumpur. Two hours sitting in the hotel's international restaurant trying to fight the waves of tiredness. Ten hours asleep in an anonymous room that could have doubled as a coffin. Thirty minutes walking down the road until we could catch sight of the Petronas Towers (then the world's tallest building), by which time our clothes for the return flight were sweat-drenched. And then another two and half hours schlepping back to the airport.

On the way there I refused. On the way back I relented: OK, we could break the gruelling Sydney to London flight with a one-day stopover in the Malaysian capital Kuala Lumpur. This is how we spent our time: two and a half hours inside a people carrier being carted from the world's most remote airport into Kuala Lumpur. Two hours sitting in the hotel's international restaurant trying to fight the waves of tiredness. Ten hours asleep in an anonymous room that could have doubled as a coffin. Thirty minutes walking down the road until we could catch sight of the Petronas Towers (then the world's tallest building), by which time our clothes for the return flight were sweat-drenched. And then another two and half hours schlepping back to the airport.

The tragedy is that I had made this mistake before: twice. Once on a two-night stopover in KL (you have to be suspicious of a city happy to be known by its airport abbreviation), I managed a trip to the night market, saw some tatty stuffed animals in a museum, went to some sacred caves; but was it worth it? No, I could have had another two days in Australia. It's not that I have anything against Malaysia; it's just that if you want to understand anything about the country, 24 or even 48 hours isn't going to help. I would have gleaned a better understanding of the country's culture ordering satay at my local Malaysian.

And that's the problem with stopovers: when you are booking your flights it sounds so glamorous, so effortless, to jump off the plane for a sharp intake of culture in some exotic-sounding metropolis. But the reality is usually grim: you feel tired the whole time, you don't have quite the right clothes for the local climate, you can't be bothered to muster any local phrases or work out the local currency. You see stopovers have the same effect as mixing your drinks (Beer? Why not? Sake? Yes, please. Slow screw up against the wall? I'd love one!): you end up nauseous and without a clue where you are.

Yet like KL, there are many cities and states that take pride in their stopover status. Until the dhow-shaped Burj al Arab hotel dropped anchor off its coast, and footballers started getting houses there, Dubai was little more than the aviation equivalent of a motorway service station; a place to stretch your legs, waste a few pounds and have a wee. Today, it has elevated itself to "holiday destination" status, but Emirates, the region's airline, still runs advertisements which state boldly: "Fine, go somewhere really interesting in the world, but won't you stop over in Dubai? Please? Pretty please." And so we do. Well I know I have. It would be churlish not to.

The biggest myth about stopovers, however, is that they help you to conquer jet-lag. Twaddle. Although I may have unwisely agreed to disembark in KL on my return journey, I had friends who insisted on stopping there on the way down too, joining me and my better half 48 hours later in Sydney. While we arrived at night, had a decent dinner, a damned good kip and woke up feeling normal, they arrived late morning looking like they had been mugged and exhausted to the point of incoherence.

I did spend a lovely day in Malta last year while waiting for a flight to Libya. Big lunch, sunshine, beer and time to finally read the Libya Lonely Planet Guide. You just can't get into the swing of Malta, however, when you know that within hours you will be lodging in the same city as Colonel Gaddafi. If you know where you're going, why delay the experience? But my suspicion is that stopover fans are not really after the experience anyway and are actually genetically linked with trainspotters. So they like to think that by spending a day in Bangkok, Singapore or Delhi, they can put a tick against the whole country in their mental list of "nations I have visited".

But sometimes you get no choice in the matter. Stranded at Amsterdam's Schipol airport after a KLM connecting flight from London had failed to connect with our KLM flight to Cape Town, two friends and I had no choice but to spend 24 hours in the city. Fine, but we had no access to our luggage and were dressed for a South African summer. Never has a city looked more unappealing. Amsterdammers in woolly hats and thick coats taunted us with their cosiness. Even the hippest restaurants seemed truly grim as we sat there in our linen trousers. And eating a hotel breakfast of porridge, at the very moment we should have been stepping off the plane in South Africa, was not a happy experience. Three years later and none of us has been back there. We shall never wear clogs again. Stopping there is truly over.

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