Do Travel Writers Go to Hell?: A Swashbuckling Tale of High Adventures, Questionable Ethics, and Professional Hedonism

You go to another country and rather than trying to understand the nuances and textures of that culture, you end up spending your time with a roving band of people like yourself. Fuck the whole backpacker scene. Even the people who consider themselves master travelers, who have been to hostels all over the world, are often just neocolonial naïfs.

“The outward fortified appearance of this guesthouse is fearsome, but surprises with its personal charm and welcoming environment.” It is dumb as fuck, but has potential for the kind of half-assed one-sentence guidebook humor that shows you are writing with “flair.”

that I will later recount in the guidebook review, saying that the restaurant “is a pleasant surprise . . . and the table service is friendly.” For the first time, success seems within my grasp.

He's rather undependable in a time of need. He has enough trouble dealing with his own chaotic life. His standard suggested remedies include consumption of large amounts of drugs, alcohol, and “not being such a fucking pussy.”

People, when dislocated from their customary surroundings, can free themselves from preconceived notions of how they are supposed to act.

most effective fences exist only in our minds or, at least, that's what I'll tell myself until the next time I have to confront my finances.

The next afternoon, Inara left the crumpled stack of bills on my pillow. It is not every day that you are paid money by a prostitute.

For my generation, the first that has always had a computer at home and that considered video games a normal childhood pastime, life on the road is one of the few things that actually overwhelm our tolerance for stimuli and shock us into the here and now.

It is pushing these boundaries and comfort zones that make you remember how many millions of ways it is possible to experience life, to explore the fringes of our physical and emotional perception.