International travel during the heady flush of youth can be a frenetic business. The obligatory daily hangovers. The month’s itinerary crammed into a contractually permitted two-week break. The bewildering decisions made by the callow lad with a prefrontal cortex not yet cauterised by experience. This is how it should be. But in my 30s, with a little more money and time on my hands (I am a freelance writer, not a digital nomad) and independence, I want different outcomes from my alphabet of vaccinations.
I am not ready to stew on a beach, but nor am I here to queue at the Taj Mahal for a pre-packaged cultural revelation.
