A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all

Hear now the timeless words of John Steinbeck: “A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find that after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.” These words, like rivers flowing from the mountains of wisdom, remind us that travel is not merely movement through space, but a living force, a being with will and character of its own. A journey is not conquered by man—it conquers man, shaping him, leading him where he did not expect to go, changing him in ways no plan could foresee.

When Steinbeck declares that a journey is a person in itself, he speaks of the mystery of experience. Just as every person is unique, unpredictable, filled with contradictions and surprises, so too is every journey. No two paths, even if they trace the same roads, are ever alike. One traveler may walk through Rome and see glory; another may see ruin. One may cross the desert and despair; another may cross and find enlightenment. The road itself shifts like a living soul, revealing itself differently to each who dares to walk upon it.

He warns us that plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. How often does man seek to control the uncontrollable? He maps the route, he counts the hours, he weighs his pack with meticulous care—yet the storm arrives unbidden, the stranger appears with unexpected kindness, the delay leads to a discovery more precious than speed. The journey laughs at our plans, reminding us that the essence of travel is surrender, not mastery. The open road resists the iron hand; it demands the open heart.

History offers countless examples. Consider Marco Polo, who left Venice with merchants’ plans but returned with tales that reshaped Europe’s vision of Asia. His journey did not obey the map; it remade the map. Or think of Lewis and Clark, who set out with orders to chart the new western lands of America. Their journals reveal not a straight march of conquest, but a journey that humbled them, guided them through hardship, and taught them reliance on Native allies. They thought they were taking a trip, but in truth, the trip was taking them—breaking them open, reshaping their minds, and binding them to lands they could never fully claim.

Even Steinbeck himself, in his Travels with Charley, learned this lesson anew. Setting forth to rediscover his country, he did not simply tour America—he was led by it. The towns, the people, the landscapes pulled him into reflections he could never have scripted. He found that to travel is not to impose one’s will upon the land, but to let the land impress its will upon the traveler.

The lesson for us is clear and powerful: surrender to the journey. Do not bind it with chains of rigid expectation. Enter into it as you would enter into friendship—with openness, humility, and wonder. Allow it to surprise you, to break your plans, to carry you where you did not think to go. For the greatest transformations do not come when you control the road, but when you let the road transform you.

Practically, this means: when you travel, make plans lightly, hold them loosely. Leave space for the unexpected encounter, the unplanned detour, the conversation with a stranger, the path you had not marked on your map. Embrace delays as invitations, hardships as teachers, accidents as guides. And in life itself, remember that the same law applies: we think we are directing our course, but often it is the course that directs us. Accept this not as defeat, but as wisdom.

Therefore, O children of tomorrow, take Steinbeck’s words as your compass. The journey is not a mere road beneath your feet—it is a living being, mysterious and wise, who will guide you if you let it. You do not take the trip; the trip takes you. Walk with courage, walk with humility, and above all, walk with openness. For the journey itself is your companion, your teacher, your destiny.