Packing for Long-term Travel and Seasonal Work

Everything I need, I own. Everything I own fits in a 40-liter travel bag. And everything I (don't) want sits on a shelf, or hangs on a hanger, in a store.

I've lived this way for most of my adult life, ever since I worked as a deckhand. It not only makes traveling easy (less to pack, easier to carry, fewer airline fees, etc.) but, I must admit, it's kind of liberating to not tether myself to a car, house, or personal belongings.

That doesn't mean I advocate for minimalism. I don't. I disagree with it on principle. If someone gets aroused every time they take out the trash, or they get rid of something, well then, good for them. I, however, believe minimalism and consumerism are both flawed for the same reason. While consumerism seeks gratification through accumulation, minimalists believe elimination will lead to greater satisfaction. They're just on opposite ends of the same spectrum; they're both possessed by how much (or how little) they own.

For me, working seasonally and traveling with one bag just makes sense. It's not about how much or how little I have. It's about living intentionally without the hassle of ownership. I don't want to have to haul a bunch of shit around everywhere I go. I can't backpack pulling two large suitcases on rollers across the Atacama Desert or Salar de Uyuni.

If I didn't live nomadically, I would most likely own a lot of stuff, including a car and a house. However, I like to think that I would own things I value, rather than following fads or trying to keep up appearances.

Traveling for extended periods of time has forced me to become resourceful. I purchased the clothes I own deliberately to build an interchangeable wardrobe. With a few shirts, a couple of pairs of pants, and two pairs of shoes, I can wear multiple outfits each day for a couple of weeks without having to dress like Mark Zuckerberg every day.

But I also hate doing laundry almost as much as I hate overwearing dirty, smelly shirts. So I have more clothes than I need.

I own six collared shirts (including short- and long-sleeved), one pair of dark jeans, two pairs of chinos (gray and beige), two dri-fit t-shirts, a pair of workout shorts, two pairs of shoes, a sweater, sweatshirt, ten pairs of socks and underwear, a packable jacket, a reversible belt, a wallet, passport, smartphone, tablet, 11.6-inch laptop, charger, some toiletries, a pen, and a 40-liter bag.

That's it.

As a rule, if don't use something frequently enough, then I give it away. And if I ever need to replace an item or on the rare occasion that there is something I want, then I'll go to the store and buy it—so long as it fits in my 40-liter bag, of course.

Two Pockets Full of Pesos

I arrived in Buenos Aires in late August, but it wasn't summer.

The cold evening air didn't do my arthritic right hand any favors.

I didn't care. For the first time since I lost my job, I felt content. My financial situation improved substantially after Alaska. So much so, I felt confident enough to finally book this trip.

The crumbling sidewalks and frequent piles of dog shit made walking around Buenos Aires rather treacherous. Still, I couldn't help admire the city's architecture. It looked more European than Latin American, despite the omnipresent graffiti that transformed the facades into murals and, occasionally, eyesores.

On my way to dinner, I exchanged some money for Argentine pesos. However, a good amount of what I received in return was coins.

Now I had two pockets full of pesos. My pants were so weighed down, every few steps I took, I had to constantly pull them back up.

Beggars could hear me as I walked down the street.

A scruffy-looking man approached me.

“¿De dónde eres?” he asked, with a welcoming smile.

"Oh," I thought, "I know what that means."

"Soy de Estados Unidos," I replied in my elementary survival Spanish.

"¡Bienvenido a Buenos Aires, amigo!" he replied with a grin.

Wow! My first conversation in Spanish with a local. Rick Steves said the locals were friendly, especially if tourists tried to speak their language.

Then, the "Ambassador of Buenos Aires" said something in Spanish that I didn't understand. He spoke too fast. I couldn't comprehend him.

“Lo siento,” I said. “¿Puede hablar más despacio, por favor?”

He spoke again. This time much slower.

Fuck! I still couldn't comprehend what he said. Of course, I couldn't. I barely spoke Spanish!

"¿Hablas inglés?" I asked, pathetically.

"No," he responded.

"Amigo," he said. Then he proceeded to explain himself, but I still didn't understand.

"Lo siento," I replied. "No entiendo."

His countenance changed. He seemed vexed.

He put his left hand on my right shoulder as he walked next to me.

"¡Amigo!," he yelled, as he pulled back his jacket with his right hand. "Mire."

He had something concealed under his shirt. What was it?

We stopped walking.

He looked serious.

What was he saying? What did he want?

Then it dawned on me. He wanted to sell me drugs. Yes, of course! That's it.

"No. No, gracias," I said with a dismissive wave of my hand. "No lo quiero."

He removed his hand from my shoulder, then stood there for moment without saying anything. He just stared at me with an incredulous look.

He spoke loudly. He sounded angry.

“Lo siento,” I replied. “Yo hablo un poco de español.”

He rolled his eyes, shook his head in disbielf and screamed, "¡Jesus Cristo!"

Then he turned away and started to walk down the sidewalk, but not before he turned around and screamed in broken English, "Un-der-stand!"

His face turned red. Veins protruded from his neck.

"Un-der-stand," he screamed again.

"No puedo," I yelled back. "No hablo español."

He threw his arms up, turned around and left. He even drew his leg back and kicked the air.

He continued his tirade as he walked away, periodically turning around to look at me and scream, ‘Un-der-stand!’

Even as the "Ambassador" disappeared into the cold, dark night, I could hear his fading scream from afar, "Un-der-stand!"

I stood there dumbfounded.

What the hell was all that about?

Then I realized ... he wanted to rob me. Duh!

(Yo entiendo.)

I walked a couple more blocks until I came across a quaint-looking Italian restaurant. It was packed, but I managed to get a table. With all the pesos in my pockets, I decided to treat myself. I ordered a bottle of Argentine malbec and a pizza.

While I waited for my order, I noticed all of the well-dressed patrons using silverware to eat their pizza. I had never seen that before.

When my order arrived, my stomach growled. I couldn't wait to dig in. But suddenly, I hesitated. I looked around the dining room. Then I picked up a knife with my injured right hand. As I cut into the pizza crust, I couldn't help but laugh.

My Failed Attempt to ‘Act Like a Responsible Adult’

I had planned to take six months to backpack through South America. As the winter season drew to a close, I started to have second thoughts.

In a few weeks, I would leave Colorado with no job, no place to live, and no prospects. What would I do if I ran out of money? What if I couldn't find another job? How would I support myself? I didn't want to end up living on the streets, foraging through trash cans, subsisting on discarded pizza crusts. What was I thinking? I had no business traveling overseas. "Grow up," I said. "Act like a responsible adult."

I needed to find a stable career — one that provided reliable income, benefits, and health insurance. So, I scrapped my travel plans, updated my résumé, and wrote a cover letter that explained my "gap season."

I spent countless hours scouring job sites. I applied to every attractive job that caught my eye. Admittedly, my time would have been better spent sticking my résumé into an empty bottle and throwing it into the sea.

I never received an offer.