There once was a man named T who was very proud of all of his many travels. Once, he spoke to a man named S who was only a poor social worker. T knew that S had not traveled nearly as far nor as often as he had traveled. T felt very superior to S and proudly spoke of all the great places he had been. T had been to Asia. He had been to Micronesia and the Pacific Isles. He had gone on Safari to Africa, hiked the Urals in Russia, hacked through thick jungle in South America and traveled across the plains of Siberia.
S smiled. "I've traveled to far more places than you," he said. T laughed out loud at this.
"You? You're a social worker. You haven't been anywhere."
"Yes. I've been everywhere. I've been to the Spain of Hemmingway and Cervantes. I've traveled to Tolstoy's Russia, Faulkner and O'Connor's Southern United States; I've been to Steinbeck's California and Michener's Hawaii. I've been to Lewis's Narnia and Tolkien's Middle-earth, Sanderson's Luthadel and Mull's Fablehaven."
"Well, those aren't---" T started.
"But that's not all. I've also been everywhen."
"EveryWHEN?" said T with a smile, like he was humoring a child, but S continued.
"I've been to Dickens' and Austen's England, Ken Follet's medieval Europe, Crane's and Winik's Civil War and McCullough's Revolutionary War America. I've been everywhere AND everywhen."
After a pause, T gave a nervous chuckle. "Yeah, but, but, that's not---I mean, some of those aren't even real. They're just books."
S just laughed. It started quiet, just shaking, but then it became a chuckle and then a cackle. S laughed so hard that the longer it went on, the more T looked concerned, looking around. S walked away, still laughing, leaving T to wonder what he was missing.