Cochabamba, Bolivia

I’ve gotten to know Adam at Eastern Mountain Sports in Schenectady, N.Y., really well these past few weeks.

He’s never studied abroad, but he’s visited his sister in Germany a couple of times. He goes to the Rensselear Polytechnic Institute, but can’t seem to finish up all of the classes he needs to graduate. He also knows his stuff when it comes to malaria nets, DEET bugspray, raincoats and backpacks.

When I went to EMS for the third time Sunday night, it was starting to get embarrassing.

“I’m just here to get those iodine pills,” I mumbled, seeing Adam once again.

He knew what I was talking about. We had discussed this on my last visit, and although the water-purifying supplements sold by EMS don’t kill Crytosporidium cysts, neither, as it turns out, do those at other local retailers. So I was back for another visit with my newfound traveling adviser in a series of seemingly endless pre-Bolivia trip purchases.

“Maybe I should get some more of that DEET, too,” I continued.

“What, do you plan on drinking that instead?” Adam joked.

I realized I was starting to become ridiculous, but the only thing that tempers my anxiety seems to be buying lots of things.

I hate to have such a materialistic, American way of fixing things, but throughout the packing and preparation process, I’ve found that since I’ve decided to leave the comfort zones that are my family, native language and warm showers, I want to have my things.

When I backpacked through Europe last summer with my friend Arianne, she used the phrase, “Home is where your stuff is,” in reference to our vagabond lifestyles as college students who travel somewhere new every four months. And also in response to me calling whatever hole-in-the-ground hostel we were staying in at the time “home.”

I’ve been giving a lot of thought to my stuff and my home as I prepare to leave for Cochabamba, Bolivia, for three and a half months. I love everything about traveling — the unfamiliar streets and storefronts, the food, the people you meet, even the flight. But other than Ithaca (I’m sure we all remember when we first slipped and referred to Ithaca as “home” in front of our parents), there is always something temporary about it.

And now, with the exception of a few second-grade-level e-mails (“Hi, My name is Stacey. I like music and swimming. I am from New York. I am excited to go to Bolivia. I want to improve my Spanish.”), I am going to move in with a family who knows almost nothing about me.

I’m supposed to give gifts to my host family that represent where I’m from and who I am. I bought some cell phones and watches made out of candy for my host family’s small children, which I think might accurately represent America’s obsession with rushing about and always being available. I got some coffee table books about Manhattan because no one really cares about the rest of the state. I purchased maple candy even though I hate it and some Ithaca Art Bars because they’re delicious, Fair Trade Certified and include art, which is one of the interests I listed in my letter to my family.

I feel weird about almost everything I’m giving them, so I keep buying more to try to make up for it.

Then there are the things I am bringing from home for myself. I have plenty of things packed that I hope I won’t need, such as Peptol Bismol, motion sickness pills and insurance that covers everything from pregnancy to death. So even though I’ve gone back on my promise to myself that I wouldn’t bring things like my iPod, my laptop and my digital camera, it might be nice to have some things to cure homesickness just in case.