Tourists don't know where they've been, travelers don't know where they're going.

When you travel you realize how small you are. You need to be humble. You can't be a big, brash American. You think you have problems. You leave the States and you see people have bigger problems than you, much worse problems than you. They have nothing to eat, they have no water, they have no shelter, they have a terrible government. So you realize we complain about the government, we complain about food, whatever it is, and go somewhere else and you think, "Now I realize," you say, "Why people want to come to America."

I'm a tourist, a glorified tourist. I'm not doing it to have a good time or to lie in the sun.

So far I had been travelling alone with my handbook and my Western Railway timetable: I was happiest finding my own way and did not require a liaison man. It had been my intention to stay on the train, without bothering about arriving anywhere: sight-seeing was a way of passing the time, but, as I had concluded in Istanbul, it was an activity very largely based on imaginative invention, like rehearsing your own play in stage sets from which all the actors had fled.

Home is always the impossible subject, multilayered and maddening.

A person who is tired of London is not necessarily tired of life; it might be that he just can’t find a parking place.

What I find is that you can do almost anything or go almost anywhere, if you're not in a hurry.