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Travelogues I was recently reading an academic paper that posed an interesting division among writers & authors: those that can only write when they are at home, and those that cannot write when they are at home. I fall into the latter category. I find inspiration when travelling, and not just any travel. These days, I am about as inspired to write about an airline flight as a death row inmate is inspired to produce a Broadway musical. Aside from arriving at the destination, there are no redeeming qualities left in modern air travel. They have all been sucked away by dwindling profit margins and terrorist paranoia. Don't get me started about airport security: the novelty of surly men with guns has worn off. I love to travel on the ground, in my surroundings, not above them, distant, sealed in a metal and plastic tube. I think I've distilled it to this essence: the wind. If I am not viscerally engaged in the activity of getting my body from point A to point B, well, it's just boring. Furthermore, If I'm not on a motorcycle, the trip is already off to a bad start. If I can't feel the breeze, it's almost not worth going. Here are a couple that were memorable: Washington, DC to Cuernavaca, Mexico (and back) San Jose, California to Washington, DC And, back after a long absence, and due to popular demand: Mongolia