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2981a8b
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We wandered in a frenzy and a dream (301).
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wandering
travel-writing
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Jack Kerouac |
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794b00c
|
When we get these thruways across the whole country, as we will and must, it will be possible to drive from New York to California without seeing a single thing.
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travel-writing
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John Steinbeck |
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8096761
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Anything is possible on a train: a great meal, a binge, a visit from card players, an intrigue, a good night's sleep, and strangers' monologues framed like Russian short stories.
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travel
serendipity
travel-writing
stories
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Paul Theroux |
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d3290ca
|
Every Englishman abroad, until it is proved to the contrary, likes to consider himself a traveller and not a tourist.
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travel
travel-writing
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Evelyn Waugh |
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7dbb1f6
|
A dog...is a bond between strangers.
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travel-writing
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John Steinbeck |
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85de538
|
We had found nothing, and had been lost several times already in one morning, so this was shaping up into a top travel experience.
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travel
travel-writing
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Pete McCarthy |
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0a7f20a
|
We'd never seen anything as green as these rice paddies. It was not just the paddies themselves: the surrounding vegetation - foliage so dense the trees lost track of whose leaves were whose - was a rainbow coalition of one colour: green. There was an infinity of greens, rendered all the greener by splashes of red hibiscus and the herons floating past, so white and big it seemed as if sheets hung out to dry had suddenly taken wing. All other colours - even purple and black - were shades of green. Light and shade were degrees of green. Greenness, here, was less a colour than a colonising impulse. Everything was either already green - like a snake, bright as a blade of grass, sidling across the footpath - or in the process of becoming so. Statues of the Buddha were mossy, furred with green.
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travel
globetrotting
southeast-asia
verdant
landscapes
green
travel-writing
jungle
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Geoff Dyer |
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eb5b7a6
|
I'd love to be a tabletop in Paris, where food is art and life combined in one, where people gather and talk for hours. I want lovers to meet over me. I'd want to be covered in drops of candle wax and breadcrumbs and rings from the bottom of wineglasses. I would never be lonely, and I would always serve a good purpose.
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young-adult
travel
travel-quotes
young-adult-series
young-adult-romance
travel-writing
young-adult-fiction
france
paris
parisians
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Maureen Johnson |
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dc69ed1
|
Traveling can never be taken for granted, no matter how meticulous the preparations.
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travel
preparation
travel-writing
|
Eugene Linden |
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48875fc
|
A slow feeling of gathering sadness as each familiar place flashes by the window and disappears and becomes part of the past. Time is made visible, and it moves as the landscape moves.
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railways
south-america
travel-writing
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Paul Theroux |
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7deae94
|
Back at the guest house I tried to acclimatise. A travel-worn adventurer had once told me that leaning with one's head dangling over the end of a bed was the best way to achieve this. It was while I was in this position, the blood rushing to my temples, that the door swung open.
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india
explorer
travel-writing
|
Tahir Shah |
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b1aab11
|
There comes a moment when the things one has written, even a traveler's memories, stand up and demand a justification. They require an explanation. They query, 'Who am I? What is my name? Why am I here?
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travel-writing
|
Anne Morrow Lindbergh |
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4ef55fa
|
Foras Road has a sordid reputation (...) Old crones sat in doorways, while their daughters were pushed out to earn money. It is intriguing that a society which is very covert with sexuality should be so straightforward about prostitution.
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india
travel
women
prostitutes
travel-writing
|
Tahir Shah |
|
957e614
|
You know that feeling when you first arrive in a new city? However tired you are, however shattered by the flight, you are impatient to get out and sample the streets, the life, the action.
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travel-writing
|
Geoff Dyer |
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f29422b
|
And yet on that bench at Jacobacci, I was glad I had left everyone else behind. Although this was a town with a main street and a railway station, and people with dogs and electric lights it was near enough to the end of the earth to give me the impression that I was a solitary explorer in a strange land. That illusion (which was an illusion in the South Pole and at the headwaters of the Nile) was enough of a satisfaction to me to make me want to go forward.
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travel
south-america
travel-writing
|
Paul Theroux |
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143ca73
|
That is what War is, I thought: two ships pass each other, and nobody waves his hand.
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travel-writing
memoir
|
Christopher Isherwood |
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136c101
|
His was one of those well-groomed reputations that get the most out of everything; any unusual holiday acquires the character of an exploration, and though the explorer takes care to do nothing really original, the public does not know this
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travel-writing
|
James Hilton |
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de72a0e
|
And at this very moment, like a miracle, the rail-bus appeared. We waved our arms frantically, hardly daring to hope that it would stop. It did stop. We scrambled thankfully on board. That is the irony of travel. You spend your boyhood dreaming of a magic, impossibly distant day when you will cross the Equator, when your eyes will behold Quito. And then, in the slow prosaic process of life, that day undramatically dawns--and finds you sleepy, hungry and dull. The Equator is just another valley; you aren't sure which and you don't much care. Quito is just another railroad station, with fuss about baggage and taxis and tips. And the only comforting reality, amidst all this picturesque noisy strangeness, is to find a clean pension run by Czech refugees and sit down in a cozy Central European parlor to a lunch of well-cooked Wiener Schnitzel.
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south-america
travel-writing
|
Christopher Isherwood |
|
389a3c8
|
Once, when I was about ten, we were approaching the ranch after veering north to look at some pasturage when we saw a small barefoot boy racing along the hot road with terror in his face. My father just managed to stop him. Though incoherent with fear, the boy managed to inform us that his little brother had just drowned in the horse trough. My father grabbed the boy and we went racing up to the farmhouse, where the anguished mother, the drowned child in her arms, was sobbing, crying out in German, and rocking in a rocking chair. Fortunately the boy was not quite dead. My father managed to get him away from his mother long enough to stretch him out on the porch and squeeze the water out of him. In a while the boy began to belch dirty fluids and then to breathe again. The crisis past, we went on home. The graceful German mother brought my father jars of her best sauerkraut for many, many years.
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travel-writing
|
Larry McMurtry |
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1068202
|
But in no epoch has the struggle to find sanctuary in a foreign country been as arduous as in the present day, as countries isolate themselves behind hostility and jealousy (from The House of a Thousand Fortunes / Das Haus der tausend Schicksale, 1937)
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travel-writing
|
Stefan Zweig |