Travel Short Stories in English: E-Book

Taylor James

• Herausgeber: epubli
• Kategorie: Fachliteratur
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 116

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Travel Short Stories in English Travel Short Stories in English invites you on an unforgettable journey across continents and cultures, capturing the magic, uncertainty, and beauty of discovering the world one story at a time. Each chapter immerses you in a vivid landscape, from sun-scorched deserts to rain-soaked city streets, showing you not only where to travel, but how it feels to truly be there. These tales bring you face-to-face with the real experience of travel: the unplanned detours, the quiet revelations, the unspoken connections forged with strangers and places alike. Through richly detailed storytelling, you'll feel the salt of the sea air, hear the hush of ancient temples, and taste the dust of remote roads. This book is more than a collection of destinations—it's an invitation to see the world with new eyes. Whether you're planning your next trip or longing to relive the freedom of the open road from your favorite chair, these stories will transport you to places you'll want to visit again and again. Inside This Book, You'll Discover: A Night in a Parisian Bookshop where time slows among dust, tea, and old stories The Backpacker's Map in Peru that leads to unexpected encounters and truths Crossing the Sahara on Foot and finding respect for a landscape that offers no mercy Sunset Over the Serengeti with skies ablaze and the pulse of the wild all around Under the Northern Lights in Iceland, where silence and wonder meet The Forgotten Temple in Cambodia holding secrets carved in stone Sailing to the Galápagos, arriving the slow, honest way on restless seas Let these pages carry you to distant horizons and remind you of the reasons we travel: to be surprised, to be humbled, to be changed. Scroll Up and Grab Your Copy Today!

Leseprobe

Travel Short Stories in English

Easy-to-Read Stories for English Learners Who Love Adventures

Taylor James

Table of Content

The Lost Compass in Marrakech

Tea at Dawn in the Himalayas

The Midnight Train to Prague

Postcards from Havana

A Market of Secrets in Istanbul

Under the Northern Lights in Iceland

The Backpacker’s Map in Peru

A Venetian Mistake

Crossing the Sahara on Foot

The Forgotten Temple in Cambodia

Sunset Over the Serengeti

Letters Home from Tokyo

Stranded in the Outback

A Night in a Parisian Bookshop

Sailing to the Galápagos

Conclusion

© Copyright [2025] [Taylor James] All rights reserved.

- No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations in a review or scholarly article.

- This is an original work of fiction [or non-fiction] by [Taylor James]. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Legal Notice:

The reader is solely responsible for any actions taken based on the information contained in this book. The author and publisher expressly disclaim any responsibility or liability for any damages or losses incurred by the reader as a result of such actions.

Disclaimer:

This book is intended for educational purposes only. The information contained within is not intended as, and should not be construed as medical, legal, or professional advice. The content is provided as general information and is not a substitute for professional advice or treatment.

This declaration is made for the purpose of asserting my legal ownership of the copyright in the Work and to serve as proof of ownership for any legal, publishing, or distribution purposes. I declare under penalty of perjury that the foregoing is true and correct.

There’s something irresistible about the promise of travel: the idea that somewhere out there is a place so different, so alive with possibility, that stepping into it will change who you are. Yet travel isn’t only about destinations stamped into passports or pinned to a map. It’s about the moments that sneak up on you when you’re far from home. It’s the stories you tell when you come back—and the ones you keep for yourself.

This book is a collection of such moments. Fifteen short stories, each set in a different corner of the world, each capturing a singular experience of being elsewhere. From the hushed mystery of a forgotten temple in Cambodia to the icy shimmer of the Northern Lights in Iceland, these tales invite you to travel not as a tourist, but as a witness to the small details that make places unforgettable.

You’ll find yourself in a cramped Parisian bookshop, sheltering from the rain among ancient tomes. You’ll cross the endless red expanse of the Australian Outback on foot, learning respect for a landscape that offers no mercy. You’ll ride a midnight train through Prague’s old heart, stand beneath Himalayan peaks at dawn with a cup of steaming tea, or sail the restless Pacific to reach the Galápagos the slow, honest way.

These stories aren’t polished itineraries or glossy brochures. They’re imperfect, human, personal. They’re about getting lost and found, about feeling wonder and fear in equal measure, about discovering that the best travel memories are rarely the ones you planned. They’re told in English but colored by many languages, many cultures, many ways of seeing.

More than anything, this book is meant to take you somewhere. Even if you’re reading from your own living room, even if your passport is out of reach for now. These pages are a vessel—a plane, a train, a boat, a pair of walking shoes—to help you see the world through another’s eyes.

I invite you to step in without a map, to let these stories unfold the way travel always does: with surprises, with setbacks, with moments of quiet beauty you’ll want to remember long after you turn the last page.

Let’s go.

The Lost Compass in Marrakech

I arrived in Marrakech on a warm afternoon, the kind of heat that seems to curl off the stones in visible waves. The city was alive with movement, people flowing like a river through the narrow alleyways of the medina. My backpack felt heavy on my shoulders but I didn't mind. I had come to get lost, to disappear for a while, to find something I wasn’t even sure I had lost. The compass was just a trinket at first, something I bought from a vendor in the Jemaa el-Fnaa square, drawn in by the way it glinted under the setting sun. He told me it was old, maybe a hundred years, but I suspected he told every tourist the same thing. It cost a few dirhams and I pocketed it, not yet knowing how it would haunt me for the rest of my trip.

I took a room in a riad with a tiled courtyard and a small fountain that bubbled day and night. At night the sounds of the city softened to distant music, drums and chanting from somewhere unseen, the call to prayer echoing with an otherworldly beauty through the dark. I lay on my back on crisp white sheets, fingers brushing the cool metal of the compass. It felt like an anchor in a place where every turn in the alleyways brought a new face, a new smell, a new sound. I woke before dawn the next day, determined to see the souks before they filled with crowds. I tucked the compass in my pocket and wandered out into the quiet streets, following the fading stars above.

It didn’t take long to get lost. That was the magic of Marrakech. Streets twisted like snakes, dead ends bloomed into hidden gardens, staircases led to rooftops where you could watch the entire city breathe. I wasn’t afraid, at first. A man offered to show me the way back for a small fee, but I waved him off. I had the compass. I would find my own way. But when I finally stopped in a shadowy corridor to check it, I felt my heart lurch. It was gone. I patted all my pockets, checked my bag, but it wasn’t there. For a moment I thought I must have left it in the riad, but I knew I hadn’t. It had been in my hand just before I turned down this corridor. Someone had bumped me a few minutes before. I hadn’t thought anything of it at the time.

Panic rose in my chest, sharp and stupid. It was just a piece of brass and glass, worthless really, but it had become a promise. That I wouldn’t need anyone’s help. That I could find my way on my own. Now I was truly lost. I backtracked, searched every shadow, questioned a pair of old men drinking tea outside a shop, but they just smiled and shook their heads. The sun was rising higher, pressing heat into my back. My shirt stuck to my skin, and the smells of roasting meat and spices began to fill the air. I wandered on.

I stumbled onto a small square where a boy sat on a low wall playing with a string tied to a kitten. He looked at me with wary curiosity. In halting French I asked if he’d seen anyone drop a compass. He frowned, didn’t answer, then hopped off the wall and beckoned for me to follow. I hesitated, wondering if this was another scam, but I didn’t have much choice. He led me down side streets even narrower than before, under crumbling archways, past doors with peeling blue paint. I tried to remember my route, but it was hopeless. Eventually he stopped in front of a small shop overflowing with brass lamps, dusty rugs, and mirrors that reflected a thousand versions of myself.

Inside, an old man sat cross-legged on a pile of carpets. He had a beard like sea foam and eyes that gleamed with something unreadable. The boy spoke to him in Arabic, and the old man nodded slowly, his gaze turning to me. I explained, in clumsy French mixed with desperate English, that I’d lost a compass. He didn’t interrupt. When I finished, he nodded again and gestured to a tray of small objects beside him. Watches, rings, pendants, a broken locket. And there it was—my compass, unmistakable. Relief and anger crashed over me at once. I reached for it, but the old man laid his hand on mine, stopping me.

He named a price. More than I’d paid for my entire week at the riad. I laughed, outraged, but his expression didn’t change. I looked at the boy, hoping for some appeal to fairness, but he just watched me silently. In the end I paid. It wasn’t pride anymore, it was need. I didn’t want to leave without it. When the old man handed it back, his fingers brushed mine, and he said something softly in Arabic I didn’t understand. The boy translated: “It only points the way you want to go.”

I left the shop feeling hollow. I had my compass, but I didn’t feel victorious. I didn’t even know where I was. I asked the boy to take me back to the main square. He nodded, and for another fee, led me through the labyrinth until the wide chaos of Jemaa el-Fnaa opened in front of me like a wound. Snake charmers played their flutes. Orange juice vendors shouted for customers. The air was thick with smoke from grilling meat and the perfume of spices. I was back where I started, but I felt changed.

In the riad that night I lay awake listening to the fountain. I turned the compass over in my hand. It worked, or seemed to. But I remembered the old man’s words. It only pointed where I wanted to go. Did I even know where that was? I realized I had come to Marrakech not to find a destination but to lose myself, to escape the neat lines my life had taken back home. The compass had simply mirrored that. Led me in circles, deeper and deeper into the tangle of the medina, until I confronted the truth that I didn’t know my own direction.

The next morning I packed my things and checked out early. I didn’t know where I would go next. Maybe Essaouira on the coast, maybe the Atlas Mountains. I slipped the compass into my pocket one last time and stepped into the morning light. The streets were already busy, vendors setting up their stalls, children chasing each other, the city waking with a roar of color and sound. I didn’t check the needle. I didn’t need to. I would follow the noise, the scents, the pull in my chest. Marrakech hadn’t given me what I thought I wanted. It had taken it from me, and in the taking, offered something else. A chance to wander. A promise of uncertainty. The freedom to be lost.

And so I walked on, the compass warm in my hand, feeling less like a guide and more like a relic. I thought about throwing it away. Leaving it behind for another traveler to find. But for now I kept it. Not because I trusted it to show me the way, but because it reminded me that the way was mine to choose.

Tea at Dawn in the Himalayas

The first thing I remember is the cold. The kind that seeps into your bones before you even realize it’s there, creeping in beneath layers of wool and fleece like a patient thief. I woke before dawn in a tiny stone guesthouse perched on the side of a Himalayan ridge, the thin walls doing nothing to hold back the chill of the mountains. My breath emerged in visible puffs as I sat up on my narrow cot, the blanket falling away, the room dark except for the sliver of silver moonlight that bled through the wooden shutters. Outside, the world was silent, so silent that even the wind seemed hesitant to move.

I groped for my boots and pulled them on with stiff fingers. Each movement felt deliberate, a negotiation with the cold. My guide, Sonam, had knocked softly at my door moments before, telling me it was time. His voice had been calm, patient, and when I opened the door he was already bundled in his thick coat, a knitted hat pulled down to his eyebrows, the only visible part of his face a wide grin that made him look like a boy despite the gray in his beard. He handed me a steaming tin mug of tea before I could even greet him properly.

We didn’t talk much as we left the guesthouse. Words felt unnecessary in that moment. The ground was hard with frost, and the sky was a deep indigo that promised dawn soon but not yet. I cradled the mug in my hands, letting the heat warm my fingers, and sipped carefully. It was strong, black, laced with butter and salt in the local style, strange the first time I tasted it but now something I craved. It felt like drinking survival itself. Sonam led me along a narrow path that snaked along the edge of the mountain, our boots crunching softly in the quiet.