Paris ne change pas

Part of a writer always dies while traveling and part of a writer always comes alive. The part that dies is the part that needs to die, and the part that comes alive is the part that's finally ready to be born. When the writer departs on a journey, he or she automatically becomes ex officio travel writer, having no idea what will die or what will be born while traveling.

Traveling, the distance between one destination and another is measured by the writers willingness to accept death as something that can't be changed, while openly embracing new adventures. Often the writer gets stuck somewhere in the midst of traveling and then all the writer sees is strange–inhospitable people and places, foreign things–a procession of incidents that he or she hopes to get some new meaning from, but can't for some reason, or won't.

Which is why all writing is travel writing.