Travel and society polish one, but a rolling stone gathers no moss, and a little moss is a good thing on a man.
Travelers are like poets. They are mostly an angry race.
The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one's own country as a foreign land.
The travel writer seeks the world we have lost --the lost valleys of the imagination.
The idea that seeing life means going from place to place and doing a great variety of obvious things is an illusion natural to dull minds.
When one realizes that his life is worthless he either commits suicide or travels.
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.
No man should travel until he has learned the language of the country he visits. Otherwise he voluntarily makes himself a great baby-so helpless and so ridiculous.
A man who leaves home to mend himself and others is a philosopher; but he who goes from country to country, guided by the blind impulse of curiosity, is a vagabond.
The tourist may complain of other tourists, but he would be lost without them.
The traveler sees what he sees, the tourist sees what he has come to see.
The British tourist is always happy abroad as long as the natives are waiters.
Carloads of tourists would photograph the family mailbox, and there was weird mail, death threats.
Cultural tourism surveys consistently rate San Francisco's art industry as a core reason for visiting.
The vanquished themselves prove that history has not lied; like tourists in hell, they took snapshots.
The vagabond, when rich, is called a tourist.
The country of the tourist pamphlet always is another country, an embarrassing abstraction of the desirable that, thank God, does not exist on this planet, where there are always ants and bad smells and empty Coca-Cola bottles to keep the grubby finger-print of reality upon the beautiful.
The modern American tourist now fills his experience with pseudo-events. He has come to expect both more strangeness and more familiarity than the world naturally offers. He has come to believe that he can have a lifetime of adventure in two weeks and all the thrills of risking his life without any real risk at all.
It would be nice to travel if you knew where you were going and where you would live at the end or do we ever know, do we ever live where we live, we're always in other places, lost, like sheep.
Travel makes a wise man better, and a fool worse
The fool wanders, a wise man travels.
Traveling is like gambling: it is always connected with winning and losing, and generally where it is least expected we receive, more or less than what we hoped for.
A wise traveler never depreciates their own country.
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