All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware.
Do we really want to travel in hermetically sealed popemobiles through the rural provinces of France, Mexico and the Far East, eating only in Hard Rock Cafes and McDonalds? Or do we want to eat without fear, tearing into the local stew, the humble taqueria’s mystery meat, the sincerely offered gift of a lightly grilled fish head? I know what I want. I want it all. I want to try everything once.
Own only what you can always carry with you: know languages, know countries, know people. Let your memory be your travel bag.
The journey is part of the experience - an expression of the seriousness of one’s intent. One doesn’t take the A train to Mecca.
Travel changes you. As you move through this life and this world you change things slightly, you leave marks behind, however small. And in return, life - and travel - leaves marks on you. Most of the time, those marks - on your body or on your heart - are beautiful. Often, though, they hurt.
‘Listen, Robert, going to another country doesn’t make any difference. I’ve tried all that. You can’t get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There’s nothing to that.’
People travel to faraway places to watch, in fascination, the kind of people they ignore at home.