Travel, by Michael Miller
The only real way to travel is to travel aimlessly, without a destination, purpose, or agenda. One should have only the vaguest, dreamiest intuition that the country travelled may be of interest. Once, when I was still working as a curator, my then wife and I went on holiday to a Central American country, largely because it lacked a museum, or at least a museum that would prove irresistible to either of us. We were mostly likely wrong in that assumption, but I can't say, because we never visited the museum. Neither did we visit the capital city's renowned German restaurant, nor did we indulge a weakness for souvenirs, although we did seriously discuss the adoption of a small mutt who decided to follow us on a late night stroll through a port city. Awakening one morning, we beheld the threatening underside of an iguana perched on a ceiling support over our bed. If we cannot travel without purpose or plan, we should at last cultivate the illusion of it, if only as a literary device, like Norman Douglas in Old Calabria.






