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.

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

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

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

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.

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.”

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

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

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

According to the law of custom, and perhaps of reason, foreign travel completes the education of an English gentleman.

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.

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.