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.”

There ain’t no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them.

All traveling becomes dull in exact proportion to its rapidity.

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.

Journeys, like artists, are born and not made. A thousand differing circumstances contribute to them, few of them willed or determined by the will—whatever we may think.

In the Middle Ages people were tourists because of their religion, whereas now they are tourists because tourism is their religion.

See one promontory (said Socrates of old), one mountain, one sea, one river, and see all.

The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page.

I am leaving the town to the invaders: increasingly numerous, mediocre, dirty, badly behaved, shameless tourists.

When a traveler returneth home, let him not leave the countries where he hath traveled altogether behind him.

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

People commonly travel the world over to see rivers and mountains, new stars, garish birds, freak fish, grotesque breeds of human; they fall into an animal stupor that gapes at existence, and they think they have seen something.

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.