In my books (it feels a little weird to say books plural, but since I am working on getting the sequel to my first book, The Tethering, ready for submission, I suppose the plural is now appropriate, and please don’t worry, I promise I don’t have run on sentences this long in either book as my editor would kill me) my characters travel a lot. Some of it is to places that aren’t real anywhere except in my head, and some of them are very real and recognizable.
When my characters are in places of my own creation, I make up all my own rules, but when they are in real places, I feel the compulsive need to make them function within the parameters of reality. For example, when my characters are in New York City and need to get from the east side to the west side, I refuse to make it a three minute cab ride. I don’t care if they are wizards. That’s just not possible.
In the sequel, two of my characters end up traveling by themselves. They don’t have a car, and they have to get from place to place. Rather than allow them to use all the magic they want to get from place to place, I make them move around without magic (mostly), but this means finding a real, legitimate way for them to get from point A to point B. Since I’m obsessive, if A and B happen to be real places, I have to find a real bus, train, or plane to get them there. This means that I tend to spend hours looking up travel routes for my characters to follow. In reality, I should become a travel agent. I feel like I know enough about bus schedules to work at the ticket counter.
I’m fairly certain that none of my readers will ever Google the bus schedule from Bennington, VT to Carlisle, PA, but I know that it’s possible to make that trip. And that brings me peace.