I ducked inside the first place I found that had a bag of potato chips when I arrived into town. Potato chips in Peru are made from Peruvian potatoes, and even though they are made by Frito-Lay, they taste sooo much better than their American counterparts. I knew better than to get an entire bag because I’d be tempted to eat them all.

I grabbed the .50 centamos bag. I knew it was .50 centamos because that was the price printed on the bag. This is a rarity as nothing in Peru is ever marked with a suggested retail price because the local economy is run by way of bargaining.

I handed a one-sole coin for my chips to the traditional Qechua lady behind the counter. She handed me back .30 centamos.

I held up the potato chip bag with the printed price of .50 centamos and pointed to it. She gave me the correct change.

“Olvido,” the lady behind the counter said dryly. “I forgot.”

I don’t think she meant any malice, but I also don’t think she forgot. It’s just the way of the typical Peruvian vendor. They try to make a little more here and there where and when they can from the hordes of gringos who come tromping all up and down and through their homeland. I don’t mind if sometimes I get charged “gringo prices,” but I do try to be aware of scams and price gouging, however small it may be. It’s always my goal to pay the normal, local price for things, or as close to it as a gringo possibly can.

It’s up to the individual to cultivate the ability to bargain effectively, gringo or not, and when in this area you have to be alert. It’s not unusual in Peru for receipts to have addition errors, so it’s a good idea to double check the addition on hand written receipts. Every time I’ve found one, the error has always been in favor of the vendor. If you find an error on your bill, be nice and point out the error. It very well could have been an honest mistake.

Or not.

While on the road, I always try to save extra money in any way possible . . . so that I can stay gone longer, of course! 

If you leave your car behind while traveling, a great way to save lots of money is to temporarily unplug your car insurance.  It´s not viable for everyone or for all situations, but if you are not going to be driving your car for an extended period of time, then there´s no reason why you should pay for an insurance premium while your car sits unused. Here´s a basic guide for getting what´s called ¨non-operational status¨(non-op for short)  on your car so you can save money on your car insurance. I´m saving about $300 this year by acquiring non-op status . . . well worth the trouble.

Before we even get started on how to go about this, a few words of caution. Don´t ever drive without car insurance. It´s just not smart, safe or sane. Only try for non-op status if the vehicle in question will not be in use for several months or more. That means parked off the street and not used at all by anyone for the entire length of time that you have non-operational status on the car. 

First, determine if you are eligible for non-op status. Rules and eligibility will most likely vary from state to state. My car insurance is issued in the state of California, so those are the rules I follow in my example. Check with your state to find out if you are legally able to put your car insurance temporarily on hold.

Check with your insurance company to find out their policy on this matter. Thoroughly explain your situation. Get your agent as excited about your trip as you are – that way they will be more willing to help you. Don´t be afraid to ask questions. If your agent says that your insurance policy will have to be cancelled, keep asking, because sometimes there are ways to circumvent cancellation of your policy. For example, my insurance company lets me by have a theft-only policy in place for a grand total of $23 per year while I´m traveling. This keeps policy cancellation out of the equation.

So, once you´ve checked with your state and your insurance company, make sure you follow the directions of both agencies perfectly. Make sure you take the time to go to the DMV in person. Tell them exactly when you are leaving. Get any pertinent paperwork from them and fill it out before you leave town. In California, the process is very simple. You fill out a non-operational status form. This tells the state of California two things: that your car will not be in use and that your car will not be on the streets. This includes being parked on a city street.

Send the form by mail directly to the appropriate state office. When I went to the DMV, they were so busy with local stuff that I did not want to take a chance on my form getting lost. Ask the DMV personnel exactly where to mail the form. Get a supervisor´s name if possible. To be very thorough,  send the form by certified mail.

Before sending your planned non-operational form to the specific DMV office, make two photocopies of it – one for your records and one for your insurance company. Fax a copy to your insurance company. Call or email to confirm that your agent has it in hand. Send a hard copy to your insurance company. Again, certified mail is a good idea.

Try to get a DMV non-op office phone number. Follow up within two weeks to make sure that they have received your form. This is important, as insurance companies are required by law to inform DMV offices of policy changes. If they don´t receive your form for some reason and they get notice from your insurance company that you´ve dropped your car insurance, then at the very least, you may find yourself having to deal with the DMV while you are on vacation. At the most, depending on your state´s laws, you may have to pay fines. Neither of those scenarios are fun, so take the extra time and effort to do this correctly.

And last but not least, make sure your car is parked in a secure place for the entire duration of your absence, such as a garage. Parking is not available where I live, so I put the word out to all of my friends. Turns out, I have a friend with a parking space in his apartment building, but his SUV is too tall and won´t fit in the tandem space that he shares with his roommate.

This friend is a stable person (also very important) and he does not forsee moving for at least another year. This gives me plenty of time in case I decide to stay out of the country for longer than the four months I´d originally planned. Make sure you give a spare set of car keys to someone you trust who resides in the same town where you´ve left your car, just in case of an unforeseen emergency.

Last but not least, contact your insurance company the moment you return home and get that policy put back in force before you even put the keys in the ignition. I cannot stress this enough. Contact the DMV as well and let them know you are back on the road and that your car insurance is in place once again.

And if you are like me and a friend let you park your car in their garage, then bring them back a really great gift from wherever it was you were wandering!

I’ve grown to love three sole menu places. And the best part is – they´re yummy and entertaining . . .

Because of past stomach problems, I was very picky about where and what I ate when I first arrived in Peru. I only frequented fancier, more expensive (between 5-10USD) gringo places, where they wash their vegetables with purified water. Then I realized I was missing an important piece of the genuine Peruvian experience. All local people eat from the numerous street vendors and three sole places (1USD). Sometimes the local ex-pats look at me funny when I tell them that I eat at the three sole places all the time. With some common sense and an adventurous outlook it’s completely safe, quite satisfying and even fun to frequent the “menu places.”

Remember that the local water and cleanliness standards are different than the tight restaurant codes of the Western world. Don’t go to these places if the sight of dirty walls, floors or light switches seem scary or offensive. It’s great to embrace local ways, but be a wary consumer. Local people are accustomed to bacteria in the unboiled water of their area, while you may not be. Make sure your food is always served on a dry plate. It’s not uncommon for food to be served on wet, but clean, plates. The problem for gringos is that a wet plate could contain potentially irritating bacteria. These bacteria die without the presence of water. Request a dry plate in a pleasant manner and most of the time the proprietor will be happy to oblige.

Menu places prepare one meal a day. There’s no choice to make, just walk in and you get whatever it is they’ve cooked. The first course of every menu place is a giant bowl of delicious broth-based soup that usually contains a lot of rice or pasta. I call it ‘parts is parts’ soup because most of the time there is at least one piece of something I pick out and save for the dogs – liver, gizzard, chicken foot or the occasional slice of intestine.

Normally there are two choices of meat for the next course, or segundo. The economical portions of the segundo keep the meal affordable. The meat portion is about half the size of a standard American portion, but after the giant bowl of soup, the smaller size is perfect. The meat always sits on a giant mound of rice and comes with a sauce or vegetables of some kind. Its safest to assume that raw vegetable garnishes or salads at a menu place have probably only been washed in unpurified water, so it’s best not to eat them.

Menus often come with extras, too. Desert often is a tiny bowl of warm pineapple or grape-flavored sauce, which I usually skip. Refrescos (kool-aid like drinks) and gelatins are also best avoided, because of the risk of being made from water that’s never been boiled. Sometimes sole menus come with a mug of pre-sweetened hot tea, which I always drink even though usually it’s more sugary than I would prefer.

The best part about a menu place is the atmosphere. Most of the time there are no other gringos around, which can be fun. Menu places are where I get my regular dose of Latin television. The Latin version of “Married With Children” is hilarious. And La Hija Del Mariachi is my favorite evening soap opera – it’s so engaging. Last week the mariachi and his friends got into a giant fistfight with some frat guys. (Of course the mariachis won!)

. . and bowel movements in general while traveling in Latin America, or for that matter, any country that is foreign to the body. It seems as though when traveling in a foreign country, a lot of the talk begins to center around bowel movements . . . and for good reason.
A foreign place has foreign bacteria and when the body encounters it, often the result is traveler’s diarrhea, or what the medical establishment has within the past few years began to label as “TD.” I read an article that was tacked up on the bulletin board of the local café here in Pisac that talks about using antibiotics to cure TD. Oh the dreaded TD!

Well, I did get some TD my first few days here while I was getting used to the altitude and the food and the water. I took precautions such as only using boiled, filtered water and using safe and proper food preparation methods. I didn’t eat any raw food. I peeled my own fruits, etc, but I still got the dreaded TD. Altitude can cause it. Bacteria can cause it. And eating differently can cause it – for example, the typical American diet is full of preservatives and chemicals, which aren’t as common in other countries. When your body encounters something different than what it is accustomed to, then it’s going to react, and often the reaction is noticeable in it’s excrement.

I’m going to go ahead and say it, even at risk of offending some – TD, like shit, happens. Did I take antibiotics for it? No. Hell no. Did my stomach cramp up? Yes. Was it uncomfortable? Very. But, to take an antibiotic when your own body can stave off the intruder on it’s own, is, in my belief, very dangerous. The over-prescription of antibiotics by the Western medical establishment is well documented and  is becoming an epidemic that is becoming harder and harder to overcome.

So, if you encounter TD out there in the big, wide world, all that will happen is that your stomach will be in an uproar and you’ll shit rice water for a couple of days. Big deal. A helpful remedy, and a supplement that should be in any traveler’s pack, is a bottle of charcoal tablets. Charcoal will suck up the bad stuff in the gut and help the body get rid of it quickly. Avoid alcohol, dairy products and refined foods. Drink plenty of water, with a little sugar and salt added to help balance your electrolytes. Get some rest. You’ll be feeling fine in about a day and will bounce back more quickly too.

The problem is that Western medicine wants to sell some drugs. And frankly, most Westerners have been bred to want the quick fix that the drug companies have made so readily available through unscrupulous doctors, who get kickbacks from the drug companies and through the media who’ll gladly take their money for advertisements on your TV. But, what the drug companies and the unscrupulous doctors won’t tell you is that there are repercussions to these quick fixes – like throwing the delicate balance of your body off-kilter, encouraging the growth of super-bacteria that are immune to antibiotics and weakening your own body’s very capable immune defenses.

If you do get TD it’s usually gone in three days. Be worried if it is accompanied with bloody stools, if your extremities become numb or if the symptoms last 10 or more days. In any of those cases, then you should absolutely seek the help of doctors and antibiotics, because whatever is inside of you is growing and not going to go away easily on it’s own. I’ve endured that before, and while I never want to have another creepy crawly growing inside of me, I certainly am not scared of a little TD.

 Matt is a southern boy and he loves his grits. He couldn’t bear to be without a steady supply of his favorite hometown staple, Adluh Grits, for the four or so months we would be in Latin America. When it came time to lighten the load in his backpack, he forsook extra underwear just so he would have enough room for his 5lb bag of stone-ground grits. That’s dedication.

We bought one-way tickets from Columbia, South Carolina to Lima, Peru and checked no baggage, so we knew we were going to get the thorough TSA security shakedown. Little did we realize just how closely our packs would be scrutinized. As Matt’s mom anxiously waited in the background to see us through the security checkpoint, we were suddenly stopped cold at the conveyor belt.

Matt’s bag went through the x-ray first and like I suspected, the attendant jerked the machine to a stop and squinted into the monitor for what seemed like an eternity.

“Ah, there’s a corkscrew in there,” she said. Matt fished out the offending wine key. So that it would not be confiscated, he marched it back to his mom, leaving the security area in clad in socked feet. The bag began to lurch through a second time and was again stopped. This time they weren’t sure about his tweezers. He pulled them out; they were regular old tweezers. He got to keep them. The bag went through a third time with the same TSA officer looking at it’s contents.

“Hand inspection!” she called out.

Matt looked at me dumb-founded and followed the officer toward the metal table. She proceeded to pull every single item out of his pack. When she got to the bottom of his bag, she pulled out the package of yellow grits and breathed a sigh of relief, “Ahh,” she said, “On the x-ray, these look just like liquid!”

Where are my contact lenses? Headlamp? Voter registration? ID? And where did my lucky spoon run off to?

These sorts of questions have plagued my existence the past eight months. About two months into my wacky cross-country journey this year, I began using the blender analogy. Take all of my possessions, put them in a giant blender and then spread them randomly across five non-contiguous states in the US and that’s pretty much been my mixed-up world for most of this year.

The moment I learned to laugh at the folly of it all was Memorial Day weekend in the Atlanta airport parking labyrinth.  I carried a soccer-ball-sized jumble of keys and couldn’t remember which car of the three in my rather loose custody that I’d parked in the lot. My own car was in storage in New Mexico and I had rental cars from both Texas and South Carolina. As we approached the lot number printed on my ticket, the bus driver said, “What kind of car?”

“I’m . . . um . . . , ” I consulted the mess of keys with a furrowed brow. “Not sure.”

“Huh, look at that,” the driver guffawed to the entire bus. “She don’t know which car she drove here! Wish I had that problem!” And we all laughed.

From then on, I stopped freaking out about misplaced items.  When I lost my contacts, I just wore my glasses, provided I could locate them, and if not, well, I just walked around blind and laughing. Then I decided that I didn’t really need my headlamp to be my woobie/security blanket any more, and I still haven’t found the darned thing. The voter registration is still in the ether somewhere too, but I was able to find my ID in time to vote, so no harm done. And my lucky spoon that’s traveled at least 10,000 miles? Seems I left it at home this last time, where I discovered it nestled in the silverware drawer upon my return. Lucky for the spoon, ’cause I’m sure I would have lost it somewhere between Tenn-Tucky and Holly Springs, Mississippi.

Although I made light of it, the blender of my life took a toll on me that I didn’t really notice until I got back to LA this past month. I’ve been wound up and overwhelmed because although all the stuff was suddenly in one place again, the blender had pureed everything into a smoothie of confusion. The power drill was found, but where was the charger? My one lonely Smart Wool sock was crying out for it’s long lost mate. I stopped wearing any sort of jewelry about two months ago, for fear that I’d lose some irreplaceable accessory.

The result was that I’ve been on edge and really didn’t even realize why until yesterday. I took a deep breath and came to my storage space/art studio in disguise. My goal? To deconstruct the blender. Two days of climbing ladders, sorting through dirt (yes, dirt) and dumping out about 10 banker’s boxes onto the floor and now I’ve gotten my flotsam of stuff whipped into recognizable and findable shape. Several trips to the Tabernacle Thrift Store and I’ve suddenly got less to worry about. The charger is found, the socks are reunited and tomorrow I plan to don some shiny things – at least one ring and a necklace.

I’ve regained that underlying sense of calm and ease that I lost somewhere on the road earlier in the year. Just in time too, because I’m leaving again very soon, destination to be announced in the coming weeks. And this time, I’m leaving with just my Italian army backpack.

To-go boxes just confuse me. Why do restaurants insist on packing our food in these things? Often I find that they are much bigger than needed and in the end, they get tossed. It’s a waste. Don’t let the recycling emblem on a food box trick you. It’s nearly impossible to recycle styrofoam (or any kind of packaging that has food bits, grease, etc stuck on it.)

Being on the road, I have the capacity to go through many of these boxes. I always ask for my leftovers to be wrapped in a piece of tin foil. Sometimes the server looks at me as though I’ve sprouted a third head from my armpit when I ask for a piece of tin foil as opposed to a box. Sometimes I have to take extra time to explain that I do not want a to-go box. But it’s worth it.

Obviously, some wet items like soup or chinese food necessitate more packaging, but for that extra half-sandwich, this is a small and very effective way to cut down on waste. Plus, an item wrapped in foil fits easier into your purse or back-pack. I’ve even carried leftover pancakes tucked flat and neat inside my journal with this method. It’s easier to trek when your hands are free and you’re not lugging around a burdensome bag with a to-go box inside.

Remember – it’s all about re-education. People don’t think of solutions as it’s often easier to accept what is presented – and restaurants usually only give the option of a to-go box. Help re-educate in restaurants. Ask for your leftovers to be wrapped in tin foil. Or if you want to get really hard-core eco-friendly, ask for a newspaper wrapper. For now, tin foil works for me.

I just won a contest sponsored by Beth at wanderlustandlipstick.com by submitting unique eco-travel tips . . . here are my winning suggestions. I won a really cool portable water filtration unit called a Steripen. Thanks Beth, for sponsoring this contest! I can’t wait to get out there and be someplace where I need to use my new toy.

Here are my Eco Travel Tips -

* Carry a flat plastic universal sink stopper to plug up sinks or shower drains and save water.

* Invest in a metal/vintage razor with removable blades. They are sleek, sexy and NOT plastic. You don’t need a moisturizing strip, contrary to what Gilette may have taught you to believe.

* Pick up beach glass in lieu of shells. The shells on the beaches in Puget Sound, for example, are being depleted by scavenging humans more quickly than they can be replaced. Beach glass is awesome for any kind of art project and all the pieces are unique, plus the act of collecting it helps the planet!

* My spoon has traveled 10,000 miles. It’s saved me from using countless plastic sporks.

I always travel with a floppy, ribboned straw hat. It serves several functions including – shelter from the sun, cuteness as an accessory and occasionally, camouflage during flights.

I’m traveling gypsy style right now with a large rolling duffle, a box, a cat in a carrier and medium-sized bag/purse. I checked the duffle and the box, leaving me with room for one personal item and one carry on. Frank in his travel bag is my carry-on. My purse has all critical items in it when on the plane such as my laptop and camera.

My purse doesn’t close, though and since Frank gets shoved underneath the seat in front of me while on the plane, this leaves me with nowhere to put my purse. I don’t want to put it in the over head bins because my fear is that all my stuff including sensitive electronic equipment would fall out.

Enter big floppy straw hat.

I put Frank under the seat and slipped my purse behind my legs, which you are not allowed to do, according to some FAA regulation. So, I just put my big hat in my lap and let it dangle a bit across my legs and voila! The flight attendant doesn’t see the contraband stowed behind my legs.

If you’ve never heard of the incredible traveler’s database of couchsurfing.com, you should check it out. I’ve happily been an active member of that gypsy community for three + years now and the experiences I’ve had with it color my life just about every day. I’ve crashed and been crashed upon countless times, always with plenty of adventure – from streaking in Boise, Idaho all the way to drinking Coca-cola at 3AM in Lima, Peru after just being picked up from the airport by an entire family.

Ah, but all things naturally ebb and flow . . . and really for no reason in particular, I took an extended hiatus from using my wondrous network of instantaneous (for the most part, anyway) friends and like-minded folks . . . that is, until last night.

Columbia, South Carolina is alright. I’m working here and my idea of a good time isn’t going to the local hipster bar after a 13+ hour day and re-hashing a bunch of corporate bullshit over frosty PBR’s with a gaggle of frustrated employees. They are nice people, but I crave something more . . . well, local.

Enter couchsurfing. With this database, a person can not only find available places to sleep and rest, but also one can quickly find willing locals to show the vernacular of the area. And that is exactly what I found last night.

I’m staying in an urban heat island right next to a mall on the far outskirts of town because I’m traveling with my cat and the only hotel available for people with pets seems to be in that remote part of town. I can’t stand malls and I feel completely out of place and bored in that part of town. Not to mention that it’s neither smart nor safe for me to swig libations with my co-workers and then drive twenty minutes to my far-flung flophouse. What I needed, I decided, was an infusion of local color.

I perused the profiles for Columbia and came up with but one person I wanted to send a message. She seemed not only my age and crazy type, but fun and approachable . . . my kind of people. She returned my email a few days later with much enthusiasm, inviting me to dinner at a friend’s home followed by promises of a “punk rock house party where we could be the old ladies on the porch tellin’ the kids how ignorant they are.” Sounded like fun to me!

Within four hours last night, this incredible chick did indeed take me to her friend’s home . . . ah! a real, live home . . . not some hotel . . . and we had the best dinner I’ve had since venturing to South Carolina. From there we proceeded to another friend’s home. This friend was a very young, hip mother of a drop-dead gorgeous 19-year-old boy who’d just come back from a two-year stint as an Aussie model. We three “old ladies” walked a few blocks over to the afore-promised punk rock house party. We were the only people over the age of 22, I’m quite sure, but two of the three of us brazenly wore our pigtails with pride anyway.

Honestly, with the craziness of work, I was a bit intimidated by having to go into a house full of punk rock kids, so we went to the backyard, where the largest home-made swing I’ve ever seen hung from a tree. I hopped on and was so swallowed up by the immensity of the wooden slat that I felt like a child as I swung with my arms held wide by the faraway ropes in the humid air that was the same temperature as my skin. Back and forth I swung, the clammy air massaging me in the darkness as I watched the wind blow the other trees in the distance. It relaxed me and I was able to breathe deeply and calmly, a great way to unwind from a hectic office day, the whole while crashing chords hummed in the distance. I found it funny that I had to be mindful as I swung that I didn’t hit any young punks in the head with my feet as they piled out the back screened-porch door between sets.

Eventually I did make my way inside to see the final band play in the back room off the kitchen. The fridge was blocked with a rack full of custom t-shirts. The music was quite good and the band had ventured all the way from Portland just to play this house show. Columbia doesn’t have any venues, I found, so it’s quite common for bands to play house parties. Good to know. Note: In Columbia, you gotta know someone to see a good show.

The best part of this entire adventure is that it happened on a random Monday night in what would appear to the average eye to be a sleepy southern town. And, although I was half-afraid I would run into someone I knew from that other part of my life, I never saw one person with whom I’m working.