The traveller’s clinic was much further away than I’d first suspected, and hiking 7 blocks uptwon in the hot mid-afternoon sun was less refreshing than it was agonizing, with dress shoes chafing blisters that had long since taken root in my heels and my tie loosened around my neck but still managing to feel too tight.
The clinic itself had a bit of a hole-in-the-wall feel, on the fourth floor of an unmarked building in a tucked away suite. Reservations started to well up in my chest, but the nurse who took me in set my fears at ease almost immediately. She was charming and personable, a handsome woman in her late fifties or maybe early sixties, down to earth but decked out with just enough gold jewelry that I thought my stepmother would like her. She spoke casually, but her vast reserves of knowledge were clear in the ease with which we discussed my options. (I had done my homework, too.)
We decided to forego both rabies and, more hesitantly on my part, Japanese encephalitis. Getting the immunizations I did need – only Hep A and polio, along with a tuberculosis screening – wasn’t bad at all. The pills I started today, however, for Typhoid innoculation? Are hell.
19 days and counting till I depart for foreign pastures, and the only thing on that last list I’ve managed to procure so far is a battery. Florida this Saturday to spend a week with the mum, then home for ten days to pack. And I pick up my malaria meds today.
Still no visa. This has the potential to get interesting.
