I think that to get under the surface and really appreciate the beauty of any country, one has to go there poor.

After midnight the moon set and I was alone with the stars. I have often said that the lure of flying is the lure of beauty, and I need no other flight to convince me that the reason flyers fly, whether they know it or not, is the aesthetic appeal of flying.

I haven’t been everywhere, but it’s on my list.

Traveling is like flirting with life. It’s like saying, “I would stay here and love you, but I have to go; this is my station.”

Travel is like adultery: one is always tempted to be unfaithful to one’s own country. To have imagination is inevitably to be dissatisfied with where you live.

If I had no duties, and no reference to futurity, I would spend my life in driving briskly in a post-chaise with a pretty woman.

The traveler was active; he went strenuously in search of people, of adventure, of experience. The tourist is passive; he expects interesting things to happen to him. He goes “sightseeing.”

It is delightful to read on the spot the impressions and opinions of tourists who visited a hundred years ago, in the vehicles and with the aesthetic prejudices of the period, the places which you are visiting now. The voyage ceases to be a mere tour through space; you travel through time and thought as well.

Travelers, poets, and liars are three words all of one significance.

For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.

One should always have one’s boots on and be ready to leave.

Thanks to the interstate highway system, it is now possible to travel from coast to coast without seeing anything.

All traveling becomes dull in exact proportion to its rapidity.