The other day I rediscovered the book "Travels with Charley in Search of America". I purchased this book some months ago based on the first page:
When I was very young and the urge to be someplace else was on me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch. When years described me as mature, the remedy prescribed was middle age. In middle age I was assured that greater age would calm my fever and that I am fifty-eight perhaps senility will do the job. Nothing has worked. Four hoarse blasts of a ship's whistle still raise the hair on my neck and set my feet to tapping. The sound of a jet, an engine warming up, even the clopping of shod hooves on pavement brings on the ancient shudder, the dry mouth and vacant eye, the hot palms and the churn of stomach high up under the rib cage. In other words, I don't improver; in further words, once a bum always a bum. I fear the disease is incurable. I set this matter down not to instruct others but to inform myself.
A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike.
I was excited about this book from the minute go. After being a few chapters in though, it was misplaced (under piles of paper and such I am sure!). In the mean time though I have started and ended numerous books, but have dropped everything to pick up this book again.
I feel like buying a camper and hitting the open road with my dog. I too would name my camper Rocinante and travel by feeling only... no maps. To feel the freedom of the open road, maybe when I'm 58 I can start my journey.