Quotes About Travel

Before I was born, they had traveled around the world together, and sometimes it seemed that they went away again and forgot me.

It seemed possible that we'd traveled across the world in error.

Flying means boredom. Next time you're going away, just drive. You can leave when you want. You don't have to sit next to a stranger. You can listen to all sorts of loud music without headphones and look at things out of the window that aren't just clouds. Driving is sensible alternative to flying.

Honest to God, the Qubo is so slow that if you climbed into one this morning in Hunstanton and attempted to drive south as fast as possible, coastal erosion would swallow you up by Wednesday evening.

Three chums would find themselves at a loose end for whatever reason and would agree to travel together to foreign lands for the purposes of cultural and spiritual enrichment.

Does the first train to leave Munich arrive first in Milan?

We are in the transportation business. We transport audiences from one place to another.

There's one Baldessari work I genuinely love and would like to own, maybe because of my Midwestern roots and love of driving alone. 'The backs of all the trucks passed while driving from Los Angeles to Santa Barbara, California, Sunday, 20 January 1963' consists of a grid of 32 small color photographs depicting just what the title says.

I can create countries just as I can create the actions of my characters. That is why a lot of travel seems to me a waste of time.

Travel gives me the opportunity to walk through the sectors of cities where one can clearly see the passage of time.

Forgetting is the precious balm that helps us to travel on, past the depredations of memory.

I can't tell you how great it is to get away with a girlfriend for four days shopping in Paris. Now that's what I call a vacation.

And there is hope on the road. It's a by-product of forward momentum. A sense of opportunity, as wide as the country itself.

Bleary-eyed, they find places to pull off the road and rest. In Walmart parking lots. On quiet suburban streets. At truck stops, amid the lullaby of idling engines. Then in the early morning hours—before anyone notices—they're back on the highway. Driving on, they're secure in this knowledge: The last free place in America is a parking spot.

One guy at a Rubber Tramp Rendezvous campfire was horrified to learn I hadn't yet read Travels with Charley; the next day he arrived at the van to lend me a paperback. Other entries in the literary canon of this subculture included Blue Highways by William Least Heat- Moon, Desert Solitaire by Edward Abbey, Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer, Walden by Henry David Thoreau, and Wild by Cheryl Strayed.

One of them, FreeCampsites.net, logged idyllic places in nature where visitors could stay for free, from small city parks to sprawling national forests.

The Casa Hogar Elim orphanage was about a dozen miles from the Texas border town of Laredo and a world away for us kids from church youth group. There were about a hundred of us that first time I went. On the bus from the airport in San Antonio, we leafed through magazines, showing each other a Ford Mustang convertible we had to have and the red, white, and blue Tommy Hilfiger ad for the white polo that was different from every polo we already had because this one was Tommy Hilfiger.

I cannot write about Venice; I can only write about me, and the sleeping parts of myself that Venice has shocked into wakefulness.

If you're on a plane and the person in front of you starts slowly tilting to one side, it means he's letting out a fart. Take cover!

The car ran almost noiselessly. It ran as if gravity had no power over it. Houses glided past, churches, villages, the golden spots of the estaminets and bistros, a gleaming river, a mill, and then again the even contour of the plain, the sky arching above it like the inside of a huge shell in whose milky nacre shimmered the pearl of the moon.

You don't necessarily need to travel to be educated. …You learn a bit in school, a lot from books, and even more from life. …And from the stories of those who have traveled!

Mrs. Arthur Luck of Worcester, Massachusetts, traveling with her two sons, Kenneth Luck and Elbridge Luck, ages eight and nine, to rejoin her husband, a mining engineer who awaited them in England. Why in the midst of great events there always seems to be a family so misnamed is one of the imponderables of history.

through the hull—the rush of water past a prow, the thrum of propellers.

At present, he said, I am responsible for conveying my associates to a place called Chicago. I understand it is somewhere in the hinterland.