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.”

More and more I like to take a train. I understand why the French prefer it to automobiling—it is so much more sociable, and of course these days so much more of an adventure, and the irregularity of its regularity is fascinating.

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.”

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

A traveler’s chief aim should be to make men wiser and better, and to improve their minds by the bad—as well as good—example of what they deliver concerning foreign places.

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