I Hate Travel

Ever since my so-called retirement it seems I do nothing but travel. And I hate it.

It is a non-stop festival of sleep-deprivation, food poisoning, and yesterday's underwear.

Travel is supposed to teach me about the people of the world. But I already know about them. They're confused, unruly, and unpleasant -- just like me.

A woman in Spain looks exactly like a woman in New Jersey. Squat and puffy, wearing a Micheline man jacket, holding a large shopping bag in her left hand and something to eat in her right.

Everywhere I go I'm uncomfortable. Every airplane, hotel room, restaurant, and  cab ride. The only time I can sleep is in museums, and they don't have beds. 

Every modern airport looks like a perfect replica of '70s futurism, complete with disembodied female voices and genetically embedded marketing.

When I visit a palace, a castle or a cathedral, all I can think of are the thousands of poor bastards who died or starved so some creep could build a grotesque monument to himself or his worthless god.

As far as I'm concerned there are only two things worth traveling for -- a nice dip in the ocean or a really good pastrami sandwich.