yarrr, ye scurvy boy-king, halt ye whinin'

"Sometimes Baudelaire dreamt of going to Lisbon. It would be warm there, and he would, like a lizard, gain strength from stretching himself out in the sun. It was a city of water, marble and light, conducive to thought and calm. But almost from the moment he conceived this Portuguese fantasy, he would start to wonder if he might not be happier in Holland. Then again, why not Java or the Baltic or even the North Pole, where he could bathe in shadows and watch comets fly across the Arctic skies? The destination was not the point. The true desire was to get away—to go, as he concluded, 'anywhere! anywhere! so long as it is out of the world!'"

from The Art of Travel by Alain de Botton