The journey changes you; it should change you. It leaves marks on your memory, on your consciousness, on your heart, and on your body. You take something with you. Hopefully, you leave something good behind. Travel makes one modest. You see what a tiny place you occupy in the world. Traveling’s not something you’re good at. It’s something you do. Like Breathing.

I can’t think of anything that excites a greater sense of childlike wonder than to be in a country where you are ignorant of almost everything. Suddenly you are five years old again. You can’t read anything, you have only the most rudimentary sense of how things work, and you can’t reliably cross a street without endangering your life. Your whole existence becomes a series of interesting guesses. Travel far enough, you meet yourself.