As a kid, I imagined that going on a trip meant either (a) decamping for two weeks to some sun-drenched “paradise” like Hawaii (I don’t like the sun or anything it nourishes), (b) staring at a series of post card-y landmarks and feigning engagement, © roughing it like some Rick Stevesite through narrow cobblestone streets in a pair of underpants you washed in the sink, desperately dodging swarms of filthy urchins, their dozens of tiny hands grabbing tirelessly for your dorky, inconvenient money belt or (d) a truly unpalatable cocktail of all three. Only relatively recently has it occurred to me that you can do whatever you want with your time abroad, like exploring cities and whatnot.