What makes these items carry-along must-haves? They’re multi-faceted, ever-useful, easy to carry and not often readily available in foreign locales. These are ten items that earn their sliver of suitcase space—and that no woman should travel without.

10. Pocket lint-roller
H&M turned me on to these on-the-go lint removers. Cheap and compact, they’re an easy way to spruce up less-than-fresh-pressed travel clothes. Plus, the sticky tape can serve all sorts of adhesive purposes—for instance, leaving a note taped to the hotel room door of that hot guy you met.

9. Tide To-Go Stick
When you’re on the road, you don’t always know when you’re next opportunity to launder your clothes will be. That’s where the Tide To-Go stain remover stick comes in. A quick fix to hold you over till your next laundrymat (or hostel sink), these are a god-send for anyone living out a suitcase and wanting to look fresh. I especially like the mini-size stick.

8. Hair Ties
Every woman knows how darn useful a hair tie is. A rubber band, a sling shot, a child-proofing solution for hotel room cabinets and, oh yeah, the quickest way to pull your hair back—throw one around your wrist and watch the ways it comes in handy.

7. Lip Balm
Changes in climate—and that darn airplane cabin air—can have a serious drying-out effect. Lip balm soothes and hydrates, and gives you a little no-fuss sheen. To double the utility, get a lip balm with an SPF in it; you can dab a thin layer on your nose in the event you’re caught outside without sunscreen. In a pinch, you can also use a melty lip balm as heavy-duty hand salve.

6. Face Cleansing Wipes
If you’re going rough-and-tumble, you may not always have access to a sink—or running water. Cleansing wipes are your stand-in for face washing. They can also be used to freshen up during long hikes, or remove chlorine and sunscreen after getting out of a pool. Bonus: they can double as sanitizing hand wipes and baby wipes.

5. Hat
Unfamiliar showers, salt water, hotel sample shampoo: the chances of a bad-hair increase exponentially on the road. And sometimes there’s only one solution—a hat. I’m a fan of slouchy beanies and hip berets, but there’s also practical uses for a hat. A thick beanie will keep you warm in cold locales, while a floppy, Jackie-O sun hat will shield you from beach rays. And you’ll look so glamorous, no one will notice what you’re hiding.

4. Bobby Pins
They’re not just for pulling your bangs back! Even ladies with short dos should be sure to never leave home without a couple of these oh-so-useful pins. Alternative uses: clothespin, bookmark, lock picker. Need more? Check out 50 uses for the almighty bobby pin.

3. Scarf
Unless I was headed snow-ward, I used to never bother packing a scarf with me—until a Matador article changed my life. A towel, a sarong, an easy cover-up in Muslim countries: I used a scarf for all these things on my last trip, and I’ll never go scarf-less again.

2. Tissue
Not so much for nose-blowing, but for toilet paper. Unstocked bathrooms can make for uncomfortable situations, while restrooms in many third-world countries charge for toilet paper—and if you’re out of coins, you’re out of luck. There’s no reason to be caught unprepared. Plus, carrying tissue will remind you of your grandmother—mine kept a sheet tucked under her watchband for quick access. Now that’s quick thinking.

1. Period supplies
The most obvious must-bring is also the most important. Changes in food and sleep habits can cause fluctuations in one’s cycle—so even if you’re not due to menstruate, you should still be prepared. The availability of more Western period supplies like tampons and menstrual cups vary in availability overseas. Women who use super-plus or organic tampons can find themselves especially out-of-luck on the road. Many woman travelers laud the reusable wonders of DivaCups and washable LunaPads; I prefer to pack plenty of applicator-less tampons, as they’re easy to carry and don’t require rewashing. At the very least, a couple of individually packaged pads and panty liners are sure to come in handy.

What about you, ladies? What items can’t you leave home without?

Sure, the City by the Bay is a foodie mecca, and judging from the healthy glow of its cyclers, joggers and weekend trailblazers, it’s just as wild about exercise and the outdoors. But take a moment to check out some of the girls’ outfits (like you weren’t already), and you’ll notice a distinct San Franciscan style. It’s laid-back and effortless but decidedly chic. And most often, eco-friendly and locally minded. But if you’re thinking poorly crafted hemp shoes, think again: in San Francisco, conscious consumerism looks as classy as the racks of Nordstrom.

Missing out on San Francisco’s unique, independent clothing boutiques would be like eating at the Cheesecake Factory instead of local favorite NOPA. Luckily, we’ve got a run-down of some of the best spots for you and your friends to experience quintessential SF style—and grab a couple souvenirs.

Ambiance

Quick: your friends have decided last-minute to get gussied up and eat at Slanted Door tonight. Or some cutie has asked you out on a date. But you’re living out of a suitcase and all your favorite dresses are in a closet thousands of miles away. What do you do? Head to Ambiance.

Anytime a girl in SF needs a new dress, she steps in under the black-and-white awning and surrenders to the cute looks and helpful staff of Ambiance. Consistently voted a favorite boutique by the readers of Bay Area weeklies, Ambiance’s three locations are jam-packed with vintage-inspired dresses, funky clothes, killer shoes and plenty of glittery accessories. Ambiance tends to lean on the dressy side of the style spectrum (no velor track suits here), so you’re practically guaranteed to find all the fixings for a hot outfit.

Five and Diamond

Amid the trendy boutiques, hip restaurants and down-and-dirty taquerias of the Valencia Corridor, one store stands out as truly original and unapologetically itself: Five and Diamond. Steampunk meets industrial chic in this one-of-a-kind boutique, featuring the high-quality, handmade works of local designers. Frilly bloomers, studded holsters and tawapa earrings might not be for everyone, but the more toned-down items can put a little SF edge into any girl’s look. (Ebony wood anatomical heart pendant—killer.)

Five and Diamond doesn’t just feel like a wearable art gallery. The space doubles as a design collective, hosting numerous events and art shows throughout the year and serving as an invaluable resource for the creative design community in San Francisco.

High-end, handmade items like these don’t come cheap, but do last nearly a lifetime. The knowledgeable, chill staff will help you make the right investment.

Wasteland

The 60s may be long-gone, but you can dig for wearable memorabilia at Haight Street’s Wasteland. Housed in a former Vaudeville theater, this vintage heavyweight features the crème de la crème of yesterday’s fashions. But don’t think tie-dyed shirts and flower-patched bell bottoms. Buyers here have an impeccable eye for retro chic—and, judging from all the 80s hair metal t-shirts, irony as well. Bedazzled sweaters, broken-in cowboy boots, 60s sunglasses and a wall of leather jackets serve as the fixings of a look worth its weight in SF street cred.

With satellite stores opening in other hip California locations like LA and Santa Monica, this mother store has a long history, and big reputation. Prices can be steep and the staff cooler-than-thou, but the appeal of Wasteland still surpasses any hipster drawbacks. And if nothing else, a look at the artsy mirrored façade is worth the trek.

Venus Superstar

An adventure is all things San Francisco, Venus Superstar is a well-kept local secret. But it shouldn’t be. Tucked unassumingly in the Nopa area, this is your spot for hand-made jewelry and edgy vamp dresses that add sophistication to your darker side. Most of the avant-garde goods are the works of local designers, including the coveted earrings, headpieces and necklaces of personable owner Rebeccah.

High-quality, handmade goods like these don’t come cheap, but neither does visiting a city like San Francisco—sometimes you just need to indulge. The boutique also features a healthy selection of vintage and vintage reconstructions, which tend to be a little friendlier to your pocketbook.

What else makes this independent boutique so quintessentially SF? How about handmade shopping bags printed on recycled paper? Eco-friendly never looked so cool.

Rag Co-Op

For an independent boutique that satisfies everyone’s style, head to Hayes Valley’s Rag Co-Op. It’s a co-op cum green-business cum community of good-looking. The sizeable space showcases over 70 local designers, with everything from chic t-shirts to ready-to-wear dresses to tailored blouses and skirts. It all conspires to create a warehouse of wearability where everyone from your mom to your teenage cousin can find something unique and purely San Francisco.

The curator/founder Blakely Bass isn’t just passionate about San Francisco fashion; she’s an environmentalist who’s all about building sustainable communities. Rag Co-Op is a San Francisco Green Business, meaning its carbon footprint is minimal. And, most likely, in the shape of a cute little pump.

As I was traveling down the Atlantic Coast, south of Agadir and thoroughly “off the beaten path,” I was giving some serious thought to forgetting about going back to Europe, and spending the rest of my two weeks in Morocco. There was certainly enough to keep me occupied — I didn’t even make it to the Sahara! — and I felt like I’d hit my groove with Morocco. I was getting skilled at traversing the streets, haggling for taxis; I was in love with fresh-squeezed orange juice and mint tea; even my French was improving. We were vibing, Morocco and I, and it seemed a shame to leave so soon.

But the prospect of Portugal, Western Europe’s “forgotten” country, combined with a pre-purchased flight and a chance to wash my blue jeans and ditch that filthy blue scarf won out. I arrived in Marrakesh with just one day to soak in the crowning jewel of Morocco’s imperial cities, and its exotic lure.

I’d heard horror stories — travelers and Moroccans alike warned me that Marrakesh’s touts were the toughest, the street harassment the ugliest. I got off the bus from Tiznit suited up in my thickest armor, ready to do battle with a mean look and a linguistic sword of two words: la shokran, no thank you.

The problem with Marrakesh, or my problem with it, is that people like to touch. I don’t. As my grandma said, I’m “a real touch-me-not.” The men in Marrakesh really see no problem with poking you, grabbing your arm, pressing their bodies against yours, literally tugging you this way and that. I think it’s largely a cultural difference; Moroccans touch a lot, are extremely affectionate with one another, and I don’t think they view touching as the same kind of violation as Americans do. As in, get-your-fucking-hands-off-me, or touch-me-one-more-time-and-I-swear-to-God-I’ll-drop-your-ass-don’t-even-think-I’m-playing.

Not that I ever said either of those. But I thought it. And I suspect the wild-eyed, shocked look I gave the dudes who put their hands on me communicated well my very visceral reaction to unwanted contact. They, in turn, almost seemed offended that I was offended, and got really defensive. It was one of those tough cultural clashes, and I refuse to admit I was in the wrong. Maybe just in the different.

But there was, I have to admit, a kind of magic to the city. I always feel lame saying that about a place that’s really hyped up (as in, yes, Paris is all that). I was intermittently in awe of the city, and frustrated beyond belief.

I stayed near Djemaa el Fna, the open-air market of insanity that really was everything it was cracked up to be. Imagine a county fair. Now add throbbing drums and shrill pipes; snake charmers and witch doctors; wrapped women hunched on plastic stools ready to read fortunes and paint henna. Picture billows of meat smoke, the glare of a thousand gas lamps on a thousand white tarps; see gleaming date stands and pyramided orange juice carts; beggars hands and child shoe-shiners. Hear the zoom and honk of motorbikes; feel the buzz of bodies weaving around one another. Wrap it all in a breeze that comes eastward and touches everything, envelops it in one big ball of electric humanity, shakes it up furiously, like a snow globe — and you’re somewhere close.

I meant to treat myself to a fancy last dinner, but when I got to the white-linen restaurant, it felt sterile. I headed down to Djemaa el Fna, stopping to slurp snails at a food stall along the way. I dined on a wooden bench under the white tarps of one of the skewer stalls, watching the multi-lingual touts and hustlers do their business, sometimes rudely, but mostly with a charming panache that was hard to refuse. The breeze blew, and I felt in love with the night, the place, the country.

I thought I’d seal the deal with some chocolate ice-cream. I made my way across the square, nimbly traversing the crowds, not responding to the barrage of “bonjours” keeping my eyes on the prize.

I heard a loud voice rumble, “Hey sweetie!” Though the crowd was thick, I had that prickly back-of-the-neck feeling that the call was directed at me. I didn’t look up, kept walking. “Hey sweetcakes!” it yelled again. Still, I kept moving. “It’s okay,” the voice hollered, “I like small boobies.”

I whipped my head around and saw a reddened face laughing, jowls shaking in a grotesque mask of amusement. Other faces were turned to look at me and my shawl-covered chest (I mean, come on, a B-cup is not that small). My cheeks flushed; I muttered “piece of shit” and stormed away, trying to lose myself in the throngs.

The face hadn’t been a teenager’s, but a grown man’s, which angered me more. It had seemed quite pleased that it had humiliated me, that other people had noticed and looked. I felt the blood in my body burning with frustration.

A well-dressed man sidled up next to me, holding a clipboard and a perky straw hat. I looked forward, didn’t acknowledge him. “That man,” he said to me, “you can’t get angry. You just have to accept and —” out of the corner of my eye, I saw him make a brushing-off gesture.

I sighed, not entirely sure of this man’s intentions, and not in the mood to risk it. “I know,” I respond. “But sometimes I get tired of accepting, of always being the one to have to accept.” I could feel hot tears in the corners of my eyes.

“Where are you from?” the man asked. I eyed him cautiously, as the question was usually a prelude to some kind of hustle. “The US.”

“Ah, welcome,” he nodded thoughtfully. He leaned forward, said softly, “Of all the things you remember, of all the things you take home, don’t take that.” He nodded again. “I’m sorry.” He paused, let the words and the sentiment linger there in the charged air for a moment, turned and was gone, swallowed into the crowd.

It was all a little too much for me, the intensity of extremes — the degradation, the laughing face, the twisted soul-sickness that makes someone humiliate another person — and now, such thoughtful tenderness. All of it from strangers, all of it strange, somehow finding me in the immensity of the crowd. The whole day had felt like that, a tugging between two places, between two sentiments, of both loving and hating a place.

I was exhausted. I decided not to fight it, not to try to be tough anymore. I went back to my hotel room and sobbed, for the overwhelming kindness and cruelness of it all. For being a woman, for being a person, in a place, a world, that is simultaneously horrifying and beautiful.