Packing Tips for a World Tour: Mind Your Socks, Forget Bandanna

Here’s my maxim for packing: The longer the trip, the lighter the luggage. That stuffed super-sized Samsonite may fly for the weekend wedding in Indiana, but try hefting it on a crowded, moving bus in Indonesia.

I’ve traveled most of the year with a 15-pound backpack. It’s so light I don’t use the shoulder straps and instead carry it like a briefcase. Andrea has the same model pack but with more in it. Her zipper broke three continents ago, and she can now beat me at arm wrestling.

I didn’t know how light I was traveling until we came here to the Argentine capital from Bolivia. We had tickets to the ballet at the grand Teatro Colon, and I emptied my pack in a futile search for evening wear. Rather than panic, I employed my maxim for attending the theater dressed as a rube: Arrive late, leave early; we all look the same in the dark.

When roaming the world for a year, you can look smart or you can pack smart, but you can’t do both. Some tips:

No matter how little you lay out, it won’t fit in your luggage. Compression is the key. Like most things in life, clothes are mostly air. Place garments in a special plastic bag with one-way valves. (Eagle Creek’s Pack-It Compressor and Space Bag’s Travel Genie are two such items.) After you stomp the air out, your wardrobe will be reduced to a manageable wad that looks like shrink-wrapped food.

With this method, you’ll want clothes made of a crammable fabric. Most of us don’t wake up and say “I love the feel of synthetics in the morning,” but there’s a reason this stuff was invented. My two polyester shirts and one pair of nylon pants have been beaten on laundering rocks from Bali to Bolivia, and they still hold their creases. I just steer clear of open fires.

Andrea’s fabric of choice is silk. It’s lightweight, and wrinkles fall out easily. Her silk skirt and blouses have kept her cool in hot countries where it’s offensive to wear shorts and tank tops.

Hanging toiletry bags are critical. They’re organized and fold nicely, and you can always find a place to hang them, even if only a doorknob. Why not bring your standard toiletry bag and set it on the bathroom counter? What counter?

You can’t have too many locks. We sleep better on trains knowing our packs are secured to luggage racks with a stretch cable lock. A combination Master Lock was handy in India, where many budget hotel room doors close with unlocked latches. We fasten the zippers on our packs with luggage locks. When you travel with only one spare shirt, you guard it like the Hope Diamond.

Other useful yet light gear: a silk sleep sack, for beds with grotty (or no) sheets; waterproof bags to keep medicines and documents dry while your pack rides on a bus roof in the rain; self-adhesive tabs, to mark pages in guidebooks; a calculator, for figuring prices in other currencies; a disc-shaped rubber sink stopper (many hotel sinks don’t have plugs), so you can do laundry; and, yes, an inflatable hanger.

I’d literally be lost without my key ring compass. I wouldn’t trust it for orienteering in the woods, but it’s great for navigating cities. When I got turned around in the narrow, twisting alleys of Varanasi, India, I recalled that the Ganges was east and my hotel was on the river.

There’s a lot of bad packing advice out there. Among the so-called essential items I’ve found useless are a cup, spoon, sarong and bandanna. If you’re visiting places where you need your own cup and spoon, you’re wandering a different planet than I am. A sarong, a wraparound piece of clothing that doubles as a beach towel, is ideal for a rave on a Thai island, but there’s no need to hump one through the Himalayas. I lived 42 years before I bought a bandanna, and I wince each time I see it in my pack.

Aside from a passport and money, the only essential items for a long journey are outstanding socks. Not good socks, not great socks, but $20 non-itching, non-chafing, moisture-wicking, wool-nylon-Lycra-blend socks. They’ll protect your feet, last forever and not embarrass you too badly between washings. They may not get you the best seat at the theater, but $20 socks will carry you a long way in this world.

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NEXT WEEK: At the end of the world.

Did you miss a Wander Year installment? The entire series since it began in January can be found on The Times’ Web site at https://www.latimes.com/travel/wander.