The Beauty Of Being Foreign Is That

Travel, For Me, Is A Little Bit Like Being In Love, Because Suddenly All Your Senses Are At The Setting Marked “on.

What More Could One Ask Of A Companion? To Be Forever New And Yet Forever Steady, To Be Strange And Familiar All At Once, With Enough Change To Quicken My Mind, Enough Steadiness To Give Sanctuary To My Heart. The Books On My Shelf Never Asked To Come Together And They Would Not Trust Or Want To Listen To One Another. But Each Is A Piece Of A Stained-glass Whole, Without Which I Wouldn’t Make Sense To Myself Or To The World Outside.

From The Beginning, I've Stressed That Home Is Something Internal, Invisible, Portable, Especially For Those Of Us With Roots In Many Physical Places; We Have To Root Ourselves In Our Passions, Our Values And Our Deepest Friends. My Home, I've Always Felt, Lies In The Songs And Novels That I Love, In The Wife And Mother That I'm Never Far Away From, In The Monastery To Which I've Been Returning For 25 Years.

All Good Trips Are, Like Love, About Being Carried Out Of Yourself And Deposited In The Midst Of Terror And Wonder.

The Australians, It Seems To Me, Thrive On Their Remoteness From The World And See It As A Way Of Keeping Up A Code Of "no Worries, Mate," While Peddling Their Oddities To Visitors: Nonconformity Is At Once A Fact Of Life For Many, And A Selling Point.