A few weeks ago I went to Munich to see a dentist. The meaning of that experience had not dawned on me in all its vastness until recently.
The very word "travel" is repugnant to me. I have never used it to describe my movements, since I always feel I am going somewhere for a reason (at times, admittedly, rather trivial). But to feel otherwise, in my system of values, would be indecent.
Yet all around me people travel. One spends a truly unforgettable Venetian holiday in the worldly atmosphere of the Excelsior and the cozy intimacy of the Des Bains. Another chooses Porto Cervo, the heart of Costa Smeralda, staying, perhaps, at the Cala di Volpe. At any rate, the travel brochures they receive in the mail suggest that they might.
At last, it seemed, I had the opportunity of finding out more about the nature of such shameless indulgence. The ostensible reason for the journey made for the flimsiest of pretexts, yet it sufficed to quiet the first pangs of my troubled ethic. Yes, now I too would travel.
My fiancée decided to come along, and so it was only reasonable to try and expand the trip beyond its original scope. We would travel—yes, travel—to Switzerland and stay for a few days with some friends in Lucerne.
We missed the plane to Munich, of course. I say "of course" because this is the sort of thing that always happens to people who travel. I have never...