To tell you the truth about travel, I hate it. Someone once told me that travel is a compromise for teleportation. Everything is basically a compromise until higher tech arrives. To tell you the truth about travel, I really don't want to. I want to let you hold my image against long winding roads, against the sad shrubbery by the side of the highway, and believe that I'll be happy when I'm not at home. My loud voice and excited manner may even trick into believing that I adore the hustle bustle of a new place, new people, new traffic, new smells, sights, sounds. But to tell you the truth, I really hate travelling.
Save me from suffering the pains of packing a bag with the most essential items designed to make you look like a Prudent Traveller™ - I want to carry only my fatigue and annoyance at being asked to move out. (Some Hajmola, perhaps - the green and purple flavours)
I am not seduced by lines on a map telling me where to go, and how to get there, I swear.
I would rather have someone trace the edges of imaginary continents across my mind by virtue of their words.
Cartographers aren't redundant to the world, perhaps - but have you ever had a laid back holiday with only *i n t e r m i t t e n t naps?