Read the following text to find out how the writer prefers to travel and why

Travel is at its best a solitary enterprise: to see, to examine, to assess, you have to be alone and unencumbered. Other people can mislead you; they crowd your meandering impressions with their own; if they are companionable they obstruct your view, and if they are boring they corrupt the silence with non-sequiturs, shattering your concentration with "Oh, look, it's raining", and "You see a lot of trees here". Travelling on your own can be terribly lonely (and it is not understood by Japanese who, coming across you smiling wistfully at an acre of Mexican buttercups tend to say things like "Where is the rest of your team?"). I think of evening in the hotel room in the strange city. My diary has been brought up to date; I hanker for company; What do I do? I don't know anyone here, so I go out and walk and discover the three streets of the town and rather envy the strolling couples and the people with children. The museums and churches are closed, and toward midnight the streets are empty. If I am mugged I will have to apologize as politely as possible: "I am sorry, sir, but I have nothing valuable on my person". Is there a surer way of enraging a thief and driving him to violence?

It is hard to see clearly or to think straight in the company of other people. Not only do I feel self-conscious, but the perceptions that are necessary to writing are difficult to manage when someone close by is thinking out loud.

I am diverted, but it is discovery, not diversion, that I seek. What is required is the lucidity of loneliness to capture that vision, which however banal, seems in my private mood to be special and worthy of interest. There is something in feeling abject that quickens my mind and makes it intensely receptive to fugitive impressions. Later these impressions might be refuted or deleted, but they might also be verified and refined; and in any case I had the satisfaction of finishing the business alone. Travel is not a vacation, and is often the opposite of a rest. "Have a nice time", people said to me at my send-off at South Station, Medford. It was not precisely what I had hoped for. I craved a little risk, some danger, an untoward event, a vivid discomfort, an experience of my own company, and in a modest way the romance of solitude. This I thought might be mine on that train to Limon.

/From "The Old Patagonian Express" by Paul Theroux/