Hello, my name is Alison and I am addicted to gastronomic tourism.

After my post about the prepackaged bonet, I've come to a realization. I LIVE for gastronomic tourism. While some may collect magnets or postcards or t-shirts, I bring back the flavors and tastes of a city. An almost obsessive, compulsive need comes over me to eat and buy-the beginnings of a dangerous game thanks to skinny jeans, luggage weight limits and having to go through customs.

As a general rule, wherever I am, I tend to stay as far away from "touristy" restaurants as humanly possible. Little good can come of these places with their watered-down, over-priced versions of local favorites. If the restaurant is on the main street, chances are it's not for me. The menu's translated into 3 or 4 other languages? No, thanks. Unless it's something really memorable, like sipping coffee on the Champs d'Elysees or getting slapped in the face with a 36 euro bill for 3 Bellinis at Ernest Hemingway's favorite bar in Venice, I'd stay away. I'd rather take the chance with the locals...

Sometimes, my intestines just can't take all of that local food though. Case in point: Peru. The markets (and streets!) of Peru are some of the absolute best places to eat. In Lima's central market, one food stand had a simple, divine fish broth and the best ceviche in the world for less than 2 dollars. Can't forget the anticuchos in Cuzco either-skewered beef hearts and potato grilled at the moment. If I remember correctly, it was in Arequipa when my digestive system had a meltdown. A soup of unknown ingredients, most likely dried potatoes and intestines, was just too much to handle at that altitude. Oh well...you can't win 'em all.

Just don't let that risk deter you. The great thing about hanging out in local haunts is the fact that you never know what could happen or who you could meet. One of my favorite places in the world is the rooftop Jamaica bar at the El-Hana International in Tunis. Sitting there the evening we arrived from Rome, two friends and I drank the local brew Celtia and were rocking out to a curiously amazing mix of classic rock. While singing along to "Sweet Home Alabama," the young man responsible for the tunes approached our table and a new friendship was born. Wael, a native of Tunis and a speaker of perfect English, quickly became my guide to a Tunisia I would have never experienced if not for him.

I always like to prolong the memories of a trip by bringing home some of the local goods with me, customs permitting. Harissa and spices from Tunisia, coca tea from Peru, stroopwafels from Amsterdam, mustards and Cassis liqueur from Dijon, and yes, even maple syrup and peanut butter from back home. Sometimes I try to recreate the dishes I had while away, other times I create my own, new dishes. Those simple flavors make it possible to almost relive certain experiences, even when vacation is long over.

Of course, I also love to share some of the great Italian food I eat with my family when I go back to the States. Normally, I'll just get a bottle of Molinari Sambuca for my dad and some good quality pasta, but this Christmas I found myself in a different situation. My suitcase was packed with the traditional bottle of Molinari, a boxed tiramisu-flavored cake, lemon candies, small bottles of limoncello and a 1.5 liter plastic water bottle filled with homemade red. (Wine, that is!) It didn't stop there. I was given a large, freshly baked pastiera for my parents that had to be carried as delicately as possible, by hand. After some 15 hours in transit, the unwrapped pastiera had certainly seen better days, yet we are not ones to judge food on merely an aesthetic level.

No, I do not judge food by appearance or the presence of Michelin stars. Food is judged by the memories it leaves. Sitting down among unfamiliar faces, trying unknown dishes is what it's all about for me. Even getting sick in the process, if that's what happens! The necessity of eating has become something else, a search for good, authentic food that becomes my souvenir.