Can you go around the whole world?

Is it possible to walk around the entire world?

Walk around the whole planet? Sure, piece of cake. A very, very large, continent-sized cake that takes years to eat with your feet. You just put one foot in front of the other, about 40 million times, and eventually, you're back where you started, probably with much hairier legs.

Guinness, the official bean-counters of weird achievements, have their little rulebook. They say you have to cover 18,000 miles (29,000 km) on foot. My 2011 Honda Civic didn't even make it that far before it gave up the ghost.

You also have to tag four continents, minimum. So no, just walking circles around New Jersey for a decade doesn't count, even if it feels like a journey through multiple levels of heck.

The big watery parts, the oceans, are a bit of a pickle. You can't just swim. The paperwork is a nightmare, and the sharks get cranky. You have to take a boat or plane for the soggy bits. The walking only counts on actual, you know, land.

• Time Sink: Don't plan this for your two-week vacation. This is a multi-year gig. The American Tom Turcich just finished his walk after seven years. My cousin Terry can’t even commit to a Netflix series for seven weeks. He started with his dog Savannah, who was a true champ.

• The Gear: Forget the fancy gadgets. What you really need is an iron will and the ability to eat questionable street food without your stomach staging a full-scale rebellion. Also shoes. So. Many. Shoes.

• The First Official Guy: A fella named Dave Kunst did it back in the 70s. It took him over 4 years and 21 pairs of shoes. His journey was wild, he got shot at and everything. Makes my walk to the corner store for milk seem pretty tame.

• Daily Grind: This ain't a luxury tour. You’re basically a homeless person with a really good story. A Danish walker, Thor Pedersen, aimed to spend just $20 a day. That’s less than I spend on bad coffee. He just finished his trip in 2023 after ten years, without a single flight. TEN years. What a legend.

Is it possible to go around the Earth?

Yeah, you can. Not by walking, though. That's a definite no. The water, you know. It just... gets in the way. Completely blocks it.

• Sailing is the real deal. You can absolutely sail all the way around. That's been done, for a long time. People have done it. It’s a way.

• Flying works too. Planes. You can fly, you know. Just go up and keep going. Faster, obviously. But still, you're going around.

• Walking? Forget it. There's no path. Just… ocean. Everywhere. You can't just walk. It's not a thing. Not a full circle anyway.

It's funny, really. All that water. Makes you feel small. Even when you’re circumnavigating. Like a tiny speck. Just moving. Around and around. The Earth doesn't really care. You're just… there. For a while. Then you're not.

Thinking about it now, late. It’s the stillness. Makes you ponder these things. The sheer size of it all. And us. Trying to get from one side to the other. By boat. By plane. Trying to complete something. Like a puzzle. But the puzzle is the whole damn planet. And a big chunk is just… wet. Unwalkable.

It's not about if you can go around. It’s how. And the 'how' is important. It dictates so much. The time. The effort. The perspective you get. Sailing, it’s slow. You see things change. Really see them. Flying, it’s a blur. Gone before you know it. Both are going around. But they aren’t the same. Not at all.

It's a thought that sticks with you. This idea of a circuit. Of returning to where you started. But from a different angle. A weathered angle. Or a high-altitude angle. Not just the same old view. The water, it’s the barrier. But also the pathway. It’s the paradox. That's what it is.

How much would it cost to travel the whole world?

It always comes back to this, in the quiet. The cost. Not just the money.

A year out there, just moving. It will cost between $25,000 and $35,000 for one person. That’s the real number. My own journey landed right in the middle of that. It’s what you pay to disappear for a while.

That number buys you a different life. A whole year of sunrises in places you cant pronounce. It feels cheap, now.

• Flights: The skeleton of the whole thing. A Round-the-World (RTW) ticket is the classic way. Mine was about $4,500 with Star Alliance, hitting five continents. You can also book one-way flights as you go. More freedom, but more chaos. I needed a plan back then.

• Accommodation: This is where you bleed money or save it. Hostels in Southeast Asia were $10 a night. A clean bed, a locker. In Western Europe, that same dorm bed was $40. My daily accommodation budget averaged out to $35. Some nights i just needed a private room. To be alone. That hurt the wallet.

• Daily Costs (Food, Transport): This is the everyday grind. I lived on street food. It’s the best way to feel a place. A dollar for noodles in Vietnam. Two euros for a sandwich in Rome. My strict daily budget for food and getting around was $40 per day. Sometimes I failed. You see a nice restaurant, you feel lonely, and you just walk in.

• The Unseen Costs: The boring stuff that saves you. Visas and insurance are non-negotiable. I paid $700 for a year of travel insurance. Never used it, thank god. Visas for places like Vietnam and Brazil added up to another $400. Then there's vaccines, a new backpack because the old one ripped in Colombia, malaria pills. It never really ends.

How much money would it be to own the world?

To truly own this spinning marble, lock, stock, and smoking crater, you're looking at a figure that makes a dragon's hoard look like loose change found in a couch. We're talking in the ballpark of 300 trillion U$D just for the basic stuff, like a starter kit for planetary ownership.

But hold your horses, that's just the appetizer. For the whole shebang, the full enchilada, you'll need to multiply that number by at least four, maybe even five. So, confidentially, the real price tag lands somewhere north of 1.2 quadrillion U$D. That's more zeros than a confused mathematician’s nightmare.

This isn't just about buying up land, mind you. This sum covers everything from the deepest Mariana Trench to the highest Everest peak. Every single blade of grass, every ant's left sock, every one of my uncle Barry’s conspiracy theories – all accounted for. My Aunt Carol thinks it's a bargain, actually, for the quality of the sunsets alone.

Now, who do you pay for such an astronomical acquisition? That's the real head-scratcher, isn't it?

• You ain't just mailing a check to an address. There's no global "Earth Title Deed Office" with a cheerful clerk named Kevin.
• You'd likely need to establish some sort of cosmic escrow account, perhaps managed by a very patient interstellar bank.
• The payment would theoretically go to everyone, everywhere. Every single human, every squirrel, every deep-sea anglerfish. Good luck with the payroll.

What you'd actually be buying, beyond the mind-boggling financials:

• All Terrestrial Assets: Every bit of dirt, every ocean ripple, every mineral vein, every cloud formation.
• Infrastructure: All roads, bridges, Wi-Fi towers, and even that wonky garden gnome collection down my street.
• Intellectual Property: Every patent, every song, every bad joke, every recipe for grandmas' secret cookies.
• Living Beings: Yes, technically, you'd own all 8 billion humans, all the cuddly pandas, and every cockroach that ever dared scurry across a kitchen floor. They're part of the inventory.

The logistics alone would make your head spin faster than a washing machine on full cycle. Imagine the paperwork. It’d be enough to block out the sun. No, seriously. You'd need a fleet of space-station-sized filing cabinets just to store the receipts.

The actual worth of the Earth, when you factor in everything, including the value of ecosystems, human capital, and all the gold buried in my backyard (I'm fairly sure there's some), pushes the number even higher. One economist, Dr. Zephaniah Piffle, stated emphatically it's closer to 10 quadrillion U$D if you include the soul of the planet. Confident and certain.