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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

There is nothing worse for mortals than a wandering life.

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.