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.

Those who travel heedlessly from place to place, observing only their distance from each other and attending only to their accommodation at the inn at night, set out fools, and will certainly return so.

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

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.

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

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

Our nature lies in movement; complete calm is death.

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

Traveling is like gambling: it is ever connected with winning and losing, and generally where least expected we receive more or less than we hoped for.

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.”

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

Traveling is the ruin of all happiness! There’s no looking at a building here after seeing Italy.