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I recently moved apartments, cutting my subway commute by about two-thirds. I should be overjoyed, but I caught myself complaining that I’m no longer speeding through books like I used to when I had stops and stops worth of reading time. The thing is, I’ve been on a travel-book kick for months now, and I can’t stop. I miss Liberia in the morning.

It doesn’t seem to matter who’s doing the traveling—I’ve been hooked on 1930s novels and travelogues by Graham Greene, essays by modern-day master of observation Pico Iyer, and a pair of motorcycle diaries by Obi-Wan Kenobi. Bill Bryson, Karen Blixen, Rick Ridgeway, Adam Gopnik. I’m all over the map. And I already know my next quest: a trip across the US with the upcoming State by State.

Today I wandered into a used-book store and got lost in the travel section, where everything was divided by continent. I had issues making a decision—plus I knew that I still had a pile of unread books at home—so I flipped through some old and new classics and started thinking about the books that inspired me to visit places over the years. I knew I wanted to one day study in France from the first page of Madeline to the last page of a A Moveable Feast many years later. And lately, Salman Rushdie, Jhumpa Lampiri, and Elizabeth Gilbert have conspired to make me yearn to visit India.

I left the store without any purchases, but since I know I’ll soon need to restock my to-read shelf: What’s your favorite travel book of all time?