He who travels to be amused, or to get somewhat which he does not carry travels away from himself, and grows old even in youth among old things. In Thebes, in Palmyra, his will and mind have become old dilapidated as they. He carries ruins to ruins. 

Traveling is a fool’s paradise. Our first journeys discover to us the indifference to places. At home I dream that at Naples, at Rome, I can be intoxicated with beauty, and lose my sadness, I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea, and at last wake up in Naples, and there beside me is the stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from. I seek the Vatican, and the palaces. I affect to be intoxicated with sights and suggestions, but I am not intoxicated. My giant goes with me wherever I go.

But the rage of traveling is a symptom of a deeper unsoundness affecting the whole intellectual action. For the intellect is vagabond, and our system of education fosters restlessness. 

Our minds travel when our bodies are forced to stay at home. 

We imitate; and what is imitation but the traveling of the mind? Our houses are built with foreign taste; our shelves are garnished with foreign ornaments; our opinions, our tastes, our faculties, lean and follow the Past and the Distant. The soul created the arts wherever they have flourished. It was in his own mind that the artist sought his model. 

—R.W Emerson