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The bigger the summer vacation the harder the fall.

The alternative to a vacation is to stay home and tip every third person you see.
Old men and far travelers may lie with authority.
If it's tourist season, why can't we kill them?
Every year it takes less time to fly across the Atlantic and more time to drive to the office.
You perceive I generalize with intrepidity from single instances. It is the tourist's custom.
Man is flying too fast for a world that is round. Soon he will catch up with himself in a great rear end collision.
Only the traveling is good which reveals to me the value of home and enables me to enjoy it better.
He who is only a traveler learns things at second-hand and by the halves, and is poor authority. We are most interested when science reports what those men already know practically or instinctively, for that alone is a true humanity, or account of human experience.
Inter-railers are the ambulatory equivalent of Macdonald's, walking testimony to the erosion of French culture.
Extensive traveling induces a feeling of encapsulation, and travel, so broadening at first, contracts the mind.
Travel is glamorous only in retrospect.
To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive, and the true success is to labor.
Using a camera appeases the anxiety which the work-driven feel about not working when they are on vacation and supposed to be having fun. They have something to do that is like a friendly imitation of work: they can take pictures.
When I was very young and the urge to be someplace was on me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch. When years described me as mature, the remedy prescribed was middle age. In middle age I was assured that greater age would calm my fever and now that I am fifty-eight perhaps senility will do the job. Nothing has worked. In other words, I don't improve, in further words, once a bum always a bum. I fear the disease is incurable.
An involuntary return to the point of departure is, without doubt, the most disturbing of all journeys.
Life on board a pleasure steamer violates every moral and physical condition of healthy life except fresh air. It is a guzzling, lounging, gambling, dog's life. The only alternative to excitement is irritability.
Travel is the most private of pleasures. There is no greater bore than the travel bore. We do not in the least want to hear what he has seen in Hong-Kong.
One of these days in your travels, a guy is going to come up to you and show you a nice brand-new deck of cards on which the seal is not yet broken, and this guy is going to offer to bet you that he can make the Jack of Spades jump out of the deck and squirt cider in your ear. But, son, do not bet this man, for as sure as you are standing there, you are going to end up with an earful of cider.
In the middle ages people were tourists because of their religion, whereas now they are tourists because tourism is their religion.
If my ship sails from sight, it doesn't mean my journey ends, it simply means the river bends.
As for pictures and museums, that don't trouble me. The worst of going abroad is that you've always got to look at things of that sort. To have to do it at home would be beyond a joke.
Most travel is best of all in the anticipation or the remembering; the reality has more to do with losing your luggage.
We travelers are in very hard circumstances. If we say nothing but what has been said before us, we are dull and have observed nothing. If we tell anything new, we are laughed at as fabulous and romantic.
Does this boat go to Europe, France?
Comes over one an absolute necessity to move. And what is more, to move in some particular direction. A double necessity then: to get on the move, and to know whither.
The tourist who moves about to see and hear and open himself to all the influences of the places which condense centuries of human greatness is only a man in search of excellence.
Behold then Septimus Dodge returning to Dodge-town victorious. Not crowned with laurel, it is true, but wreathed in lists of things he has seen and sucked dry. Seen and sucked dry, you know: Venus de Milo, the Rhine or the Coliseum: swallowed like so many clams, and left the shells.
Without stirring abroad, one can know the whole world; Without looking out of the window one can see the way of heaven. The further one goes the less one knows.
Thanks to the interstate highway system, it is now possible to travel across the country from coast to coast without seeing anything.
The map is not the territory.
A route differs from a road not only because it is solely intended for vehicles, but also because it is merely a line that connects one point with another. A route has no meaning in itself; its meaning derives entirely from the two points that it connects. A road is a tribute to space. Every stretch of road has meaning in itself and invites us to stop. A route is the triumphant devaluation of space, which thanks to it has been reduced to a mere obstacle to human movement and a waste of time.
If you look like your passport picture you're too ill to travel.
Much have I traveled in the realms of gold, and many goodly states and kingdoms seen.
People commonly travel the world over to see rivers and mountains, new stars, garish birds, freak fish, grotesque breeds of human; they fall into an animal stupor that gapes at existence and they think they have seen something.
Worth seeing? Yes; but not worth going to see.
As the Spanish proverb says, He who would bring home the wealth of the Indies, must carry the wealth of the Indies with him. So it is in travelling; a man must carry knowledge with him, if he would bring home knowledge.
The use of traveling is to regulate imagination by reality, and instead of thinking how things may be, to see them as they are.
He that travels in theory has no inconveniences; he has shade and sunshine at his disposal, and wherever he alights finds tables of plenty and looks of gaiety. These ideas are indulged till the day of departure arrives, the chaise is called, and the progress of happiness begins. A few miles teach him the fallacies of imagination. The road is dusty, the air is sultry, the horses are sluggish. He longs for the time of dinner that he may eat and rest. The inn is crowded, his orders are neglected, and nothing remains but that he devour in haste what the cook has spoiled, and drive on in quest of better entertainment. He finds at night a more commodious house, but the best is always worse than he expected.
Though there are some disagreeable things in Venice there is nothing so disagreeable as the visitors.