The Sailor on the Seas of Fate by Michael Moorcock

One of the many reasons I dislike air travel is because it reduces geography—former arbiter of cultural and political identity, of the literal shape of history—to a curiosity, and travel itself—properly a pilgrimage across physical and social barriers, which being passed are in part assumed—to a convenience. It decontextualizes the deep old god of place into an arbitrary novelty. The effect is much more pronounced than with land transit, which is still beholden to geography to varying extents. At least, you're forced to watch it pass by.

Of course, you can always opt to take the long way round, but air travel makes the choice an affectation.

Part of the appeal of fantasy is that it returns to worlds still governed by geography, where journeys are difficult ventures into unknown territory that transform travelers along the way. Elric truly does not know what lies beyond the nearest pile of scree, has no choice but to scramble up it, and arrives at the top understanding the place and its locales better than if he had teleported a shortcut. It's not that we want to do it ourselves, but magical, pre-Industrial worlds are a vicarious reminder that something is missing: geographic rootedness/limitation/context.