What the Fuck Is Conscientious Travel?

I feel guilt when I travel.

I live a privileged existence — not as much as some, but far more than most.

I am white. By birth, I have passports from not one wealthy country but two. I have had access to primary and further education. I earn an alright amount of money and have disposable income. I am cis-het or straight — and am rarely mistaken for anything but that. I have been told that I am pretty. I have a man’s name, and not just any man’s name, the most mediocre-khaki-trousers-wearing-takes-shirtless-selfies-in-the-gym-works-in-sales-white-man’s name, Kyle. All qualities that, on the global social hierarchy, puts me firmly in a position of privilege.

When I travel, the world is, for the most part, my oyster.