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

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.

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.”

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

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

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

Our nature lies in movement; complete calm is death.

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.”

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

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

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.