Quotes About Travel

Jack London es el Rey Alexander Supertramp Mayo 1992 [Inscripción

Launching into a long story involving a French tourist, a Buddhist monk, and a particularly shaggy yak, Hall delivered the punch line with an impish squint, paused a beat for effect, then threw his head back in a booming, contagious laugh, unable to contain his delight in his own yarn. I liked him immediately.

la naturaleza es un lugar despiadado, al que le traen sin cuidado las esperanzas y anhelos de los viajeros. «Los

Nothing suits a director any better than to hop on a train with his company and go somewhere, no matter where it is, as long as he can get away from the studio. —William Fox, December 27, 1917

My Caprice was a spacious cruiser, well insulated from the world—one motored along the highways as if sitting in a middle-class living room equipped with an engine and tires.

I sat in airport hell wondering once again why there is nothing to do in airports. Why hasn't some enterprising genius yet realized all us bored ticket holders would adore, flock to, pay hard cash for any diversions that lasted longer than a cruise through the magazine racks or dull necktie store?

She'd visited the Continent five times on vacation and twice on business trips with Alfred, so about a dozen times altogether, and to friends planning tours of Spain or France she now liked to say, with a sigh, that she'd had her fill of the place.

listened to ordinary citizens risking imprisonment by demanding fair elections, free travel, the neutering of the Stasi.

There is nothing Tourettic about the New York City subways.

Chaos didn't know what this meant. He kept feeling like somehow, intending to travel across land, he'd traveled through time instead.

Bruno's brain might have parachuted somewhere over the Atlantic.

Grandfather kicked the stop pedal, and my face gave a high-five to the front window.

An ocean could not explain the distance we have traveled.

When I got off the plane, after eleven hours of travel and forty years away, the man took my passport and asked me the purpose of my visit, I wrote in my daybook, To mourn, and then, To mourn try to live, he gave me a look and asked if I would consider that business or pleasure, I wrote, Neither. For how long do you plan to mourn and try to live? For as long as I can. Are we talking about a weekend or a year? I didn't write anything. The man said, Next.

Today, it isn't unusual for meat to travel almost halfway around the globe to reach your supermarket. The average distance our meat travels hovers arounf fifteen hundred miles.

As we drove, I imagined we were standing still and the world was coming toward us.

In Ukraine one cup of coffee is five dollars!

long before man traveled into space, rabbis debated how one would observe Shabbat there—not because they anticipated space travel but because Buddhists strive to live with questions and Jews would rather die.

If I could live again - I will travel light, If I could live again - I'll try to work bare feet at the beginning of spring till the end of autumn, I'll ride more carts, I'll watch more sunrises...

Every so many years, he went to England to visit—judging by the photographs he showed us—a sundial and some oak trees.

De toutes les villes du monde. de toutes les patries intimes qu'un homme cherche à mériter au cours de ses voyages, Genève me semble la plus propice au bonheur.

Like all men of the Library, in my younger days I traveled; I have journeyed in quest of a book, perhaps the catalog of catalogs. Now that my eyes can hardly make out what I myself have written, I am preparing to die, a few leagues from the hexagon where I was born. When I am dead, compassionate hands will throw me over the railing; my tomb will be the unfathomable air, my body will sink for ages, and I will decay and dissolve in the wind engendered by my fall, which shall be infinite.

My heart goes out to the playing and singing folk, the folk who are forever on the roads. Life is change; and to be seeing new wonders every day—the thrown sea, the silver rush of the meadow, the lights in distant towns—is to be living, and not merely existing. I pity the man who is content to stay always in the place where his mother dropped him; that is, unless his thoughts wander. For one might sit on a midden and dream stars!

A bar girl in the Russian enclave of Kaliningrad who asked to see my passport and held it to her nose; closing her eyes she sighed, 'Ah, the smell of freedom.