I can’t possibly understand the fascination with travel. Books about travel? I guess any form of misery is a good topic for deluded writers. Travel is torture. If you have never sat in coach on an overseas flight, then I suppose you can only imagine what it is to be condemned to be fastened to the stocks in the public square, although for my part that would be preferable. Ask yourself, BTW, if the condemned to the stocks got bathroom breaks as required by wage and hour laws. Or just tryout an airline restroom after 12 hours in flight. Unthinkable. Or even a road trip through Nebraska, or the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Misery. Speakers of English know this is torture or ought to know it. The word “travel” is a blood relative, in fact a descendant of “travail” another apt description of travel in any form. From Middle English “travailen” from Latin “tripaliare” meaning “torture.” But wait there is more, “tripaliare” is from “tripalium” the Roman form of stocks, a gruesome device whereby the victim was spread-eagled on three stakes. Picture it:
Two Strikes 