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A farmer in the Congo harvests jackfruit, the largest tree fruit in the world. Photo courtesy of Flickr user Scamperdale.

In faraway lands, a walk through the village street market is a sure bet for zeroing in on the best of a region’s edible fruits. And in spite of museums, adrenaline sports, helicopter tours, golf courses and all the other offerings cut out and polished for commercial tourism, I’ve often found the local bazaars and farmers markets to be the most exciting of exotic cultural experiences. New sights, smells and tastes meet you at each visit, and as you near the equator, the diversity of available local edibles increases until you may discover new fruits at every market stall. Watch for mamey sapotes in Cuba, blackberry jam fruits in Brazil, peanut butter fruits in Columbia, the lucuma in Peru, Sycamore figs in Yemen, mangosteens in Thailand—and that’s just the beginning of the long, long list. Following are a few suggestions, continuing from last week, of fruits (and one fruit wine) worth a journey to see and taste.

Jackfruit, South Asia. When a falling apple bonked the brain of Isaac Newton, the theory of gravity is said to have been born. But falling jackfruit can kill. This huge fruit, kin to the dainty mulberry, can weigh more than 100 pounds. Should you find yourself in the tropics on a sweltering day, hang your hammock in the shade of a guava tree, by all means—but beware of the jackfruit. The trees are common as cows in much of South Asia, and the oblong, green fruits are covered with a thick reptilian hide that exudes a sticky latex-like sap. Knives and hands should be greased with cooking oil before butchering a jackfruit. Inside are the edible parts—yellow rubbery arils that taste of banana, pineapple and bubblegum. The fruit is loved by millions, though the wood of the tree has value, and in Sri Lanka more than 11,000 acres of jackfruit trees are grown for lumber. The species occurs throughout the tropics today. In Brazil, where it was introduced in the late 1700s, it has become a favorite fruit as well as a problematic invasive species. Asian communities elsewhere around the world import jackfruits, many of which are grown in Mexico.

White Sapote, Mexico. A green-skinned apple lookalike with creamy, white flesh as juicy as a peach and as gratifying as a banana, the white sapote may be one of the most outstanding tree fruits in the New World. Though native to Mexico and Central America, it can be grown in temperate regions—as far north, even, as the foggy San Francisco Bay Area. I first met this fruit while cycling through Malibu, California, when I discovered hundreds of apple-sized orbs spilling from a pair of trees outside a driveway along Highway 1. I picked one up, found the fruit as soft and pliable as an avocado, and couldn’t resist taking a bite. I was stunned by the flavor and equally surprised that I had never seen this creature before, and I crawled into the culvert to salvage the fallen beauties. I packed about 20 pounds of bruised and oozing white sapotes into my saddlebags and, with a heavy heart, left perhaps 100 pounds more to spoil. That was in October 2004, and I suppose that the trees are still there. (If you go, harvest only the fallen fruit.) Just months later, I was walking through the desert mountains north of Cabo San Lucas on a dirt road that crosses the Baja Peninsula from El Pescadero on the Pacific coast eastward before the road connects with the main highway. Just before that intersection, I met a local ranch family who told me that in a nearby canyon was a semi-wild white sapote orchard. They spoke reverently of the trees and their fruit—but said I had just missed the season.

Fig, Greece and Turkey. A perfectly ripened fresh fig is soft and sweet as jam, making this Old World native essentially unable to withstand the rigors of long-distance travel or long-term storage. In effect, the fig is one of the very last fruits that is mostly unavailable outside the season and place where it is grown. Although Spanish missionaries tenderly packed fig cuttings with their guns and cannons and planted the lucrative food source throughout the New World, and although British explorers introduced the fig to the Pacific Islands and Australia, nowhere in the world do figs occur in such abundance as along the coast of the Mediterranean Sea. Portugal to Israel, Egypt to Morocco, and throughout the region’s islands, fig trees grow like weeds. Ravenous goats, worthless rock soils and never-ending drought, all in combination, cannot stop the miraculous fig, and the trees take over abandoned villages. They bust apart the cobblestones of bridges and castles, and they drop their fruits upon the world below. Esteemed cultivars grow in gardens and dangle over village fences. Wild seedlings and forgotten heirlooms grow in vacant lots and abandoned groves. In high season—August to October—sidewalks vanish as falling fruit accumulates like jam on the ground. Picking sacks full of figs is a sure bet in nearly every village below 3,000 feet. Greece and coastal Turkey are ground zero, but hundreds of varieties and millions of trees grow in Spain, Croatia, Italy, Portugal, France and Georgia—nearly anywhere in the region. Want to skip the high season and still get your fig kick? Then go to the island of Cyprus, where several local varieties ripen as late as December. Can’t travel until February? April? June? On parts of the Big Island of Hawaii, fig trees produce fruit year round.

Throughout the Mediterranean and Middle East, village sidewalks disappear under splattered fruit during the height of fig season. This scene was photographed by the author in southern Turkey in late September 2010.

Pawpaw, Appalachia. This is one fruit you may not find in your average farmers market. It’s been nicknamed “poor man’s banana” and described as “America’s forgotten fruit”—but why and how did we ever forget the pawpaw? It’s got the fetching qualities (as well as the DNA) of a tropical fruit, but this cold-tolerant species is as American as the Great Lakes, the swamps of Florida and the backwoods of the Appalachians. Abundant in places, it even occurs naturally in southern Ontario. Lewis and Clark encountered this relative of the cherimoya and were pleased by its creamy, custard-like flesh, and many people in the Eastern states are familiar with the pawpaw fruit, which may weigh five pounds and is the largest native edible fruit in America. On the shores of the Potomac River, pawpaw trees grow wild. Indeed, foraging may be the only way to taste this oddity. For whatever reason, pawpaws are scarcely cultivated and even more rarely sold in markets. So pack a machete and a fruit bowl and get thee to Kentucky. Take note: Kiwis call papayas pawpaws. That is, the “pawpaws” you see in New Zealand supermarkets are simply mislabeled papayas.

Cashew wine, Belize. I first described this specialty product of Belize two weeks ago. Cashew wine is not currently imported into or sold in the United States (or if it is, I haven’t heard about it) and short of having a friend pack a few bottles home on their next trek to Central America there may be no way other way than visiting Belize to have a taste (well, you can order it online, but that’s no fun). But it so happens that I was lucky enough to sample a bottle kindly sent to me last week by Travellers Liquors, the Belize-based maker of Mr. P’s Genuine Cashew Wine. Made from the fleshy cashew apple, Mr. P’s is tawny colored, like whiskey, on the sweet side and very aromatic. It smells and tastes like a lively stew of sour pineapple, molasses and maple syrup, with a strange and elusive hint of WD40—an exciting change of pace from the fermented juice of the grape. And here’s a morsel of jungle lore: Belizeans told me in 2002, as I traveled there for a month, that cashew wine will make a person drunk twice—once while drinking it, and again the next day if you should fall asleep in the sun.

I’ve surely missed a thousand other good fruits. More suggestions,  anyone?

In northern Spain, pouring apple cider from bottle to glass is a sport requiring dexterity and skill, as demonstrated by this barman in La Calzada, Asturias. Photo courtesy of Flickr user Peter Gasston.

Last week I served up a short listing of alcoholic beverages of the world—and I’m glad I’m merely writing about so much booze. For had I set myself to tasting my way across the globe, I’m not sure I’d even remember my journey. I think I could pass gracefully enough through the vineyards of France and the monastic breweries of Belgium. Even in Italy, I think I could maintain my composure, swirling my glass and sniffing my wine like I knew what I was doing. But the list of brews and booze from around the globe is a long one, and after the grappa, the tsipouro, the rakia and the chacha of Europe, there’s no telling if I’d make it through the various rice distillates of Asia, past the coconut and sugarcane liquors of the tropics and home again to California for a glass of Zinfandel. So here we go, another round of the world’s most throat-raking, most charismatic and most beloved alcoholic drinks:

Chacha, Republic of Georgia. Stick to the road, ignore everyone and beware of liquid that looks like water—because it’s probably chacha, and in the Republic of Georgia, locals take pride in their national liquor, and they want you to drink it. The local version of grappa, chacha may be distilled from wine lees or the brew of other fermented fruits. It runs 40 percent alcohol, tastes like any other backwoods moonshine and can appear just about anywhere, at any time. If it starts raining and you pull your bicycle under a tree with two or three drenched locals, don’t be surprised if one produces a bottle of chacha. And if you stop in a cafe for tea and accidentally make eye contact with the fellows at the table in the corner, hey, you asked for it. They’ll call you over and get you started shot glass at a time. Saying “no thanks” bears no meaning here, and if you say “just one,” it always means “just one more.” And if you accept that invitation from a group of construction workers to join them for their roadside lunch, well, get ready—because you know what’s coming. Didn’t I warn you to stick to the road? Tip: If you can (and this is what I always did while biking through Georgia in 2010), politely say no to the chacha and ask for wine. That was usually an adequate compromise—and then you’ll get to experience the absurdly laborious, almost comical but totally serious custom of toasting. Keep your glass raised, and wait until the speaker drinks (it could be five minutes)—then chug.

A young man in the Republic of Georgia proudly shows off his backyard wine- and chacha-making equipment for the author, who did not get away without several drinks. Photo by Alastair Bland.

Tej, Ethiopia. Honey, water and yeast equal mead, but in Ethiopia, a slightly different recipe has long been used to brew a drink called tej. The difference comes with the addition of leaves from a plant called gesho, a species of buckthorn that serves much the way that hops do in beer, balancing sweetness with bitterness. Archaeological and written records indicate that tej has been made for as long as 3,000 years. Elsewhere in Africa, beer has replaced honey-based alcohol as the drink of choice, but tej remains king in Ethiopia, the largest honey producer in Africa. Here, there are between five million and six million wild beehives, and 80 percent of the honey is snatched away from the insects by brewers bent on having their tej. In the United States, imported tej is becoming increasingly available. Heritage Wines in Rutherford, New Jersey, for example, is brewing it. If you can, track down their Saba Tej—named for the ancient Queen Sheba—or Axum Tej, named for the ancient Ethiopian city. Trivia: There is another ancient honey-based drink that, unlike tej, has gone extinct. But if you have any homebrewer friends, you might talk them into making it: whole-hive mead. Yes, that’s mead, or honey wine, made with the addition of the entire buzzing beehive. Beer writer and beekeeper William Bostwick recently wrote about the process, which he conducted at home. Not only did Bostwick boil his own bees alive, he even specifies the importance of mashing the bees into the brew.

Apple Cider, Asturias. Cider is to Asturias and its neighboring Spanish provinces what wine is to Burgundy, and many or most bars make their own from backyard trees. The drink usually runs about 6 percent alcohol and is sometimes drawn straight out of the barrel upon serving. And while local folks certainly enjoy drinking their homemade cider, many derive equal pleasure from simply pouring it. In fact, serving cider in Asturias is a celebrated art and even a competitive sport. The server—or contestant—holds the bottle overhead and pours the drink into a glass held at waist level. If you find a Spaniard who takes pride in his pouring skills, offer the chap a glass. Maybe he’ll fill it for you, splashing as much as 20 percent of the cider onto the floor as he pours. Drink it, and then kindly offer your glass to him again. And if you’re still thirsty, check out the Nava Cider Festival on the second weekend of the month.

Zinfandel, California. Its origins have been traced via DNA profiling back to Croatia, and in Puglia a grape called Primitivo seems to be nearly identical. But Zinfandel today is as Californian as Lake Tahoe, the Beach Boys and the Golden Gate Bridge. Some of the oldest grape vines on earth are the Zin vines planted in the Sierra foothills—prime cycling country, if I may add—during the era of the Gold Rush, 150-plus years ago. The Vineyard 1869 Zinfandel from Scott Harvey Wines is one such taste of history, as is the Old Vine 1867 Zinfandel from Deaver Vineyards. Besides historical value, Zinfandel is one of the most distinctive and charismatic of red wines. It is often crisp and sharp, tart like raspberries and spicy as black pepper—but there was a short chapter of history when “Zin” was mostly pink, sticky and sweet. Ugh. Called “white Zinfandel,” this cheap and nasty stuff still can be found at $4 a bottle, though Zin-heavy wineries like Ravenswood in Sonoma County have helped dispel its popularity. Today, Zinfandel—the red kind—is wildly popular and is the featured star of the world’s largest single-variety wine tasting in the world, the annual “ZAP festival” in San Francisco.

Port, Douro Valley of Portugal. Beginning in the late 1600s, political squabbles between the British and the French led to a halt of trade between the nations, and the British, as thirsty a tribe as any, had suddenly lost their most important connection in the latitudes of winemaking. So they turned to humble Portugal, which for centuries had been fermenting grapes mostly for its own use. Exports began, and often the shippers dumped into the barrels a healthy shot of clear brandy to preserve the wine at sea. The British gained a taste for this fortified wine, and so was born the sweet and strong drink we call Port. Today, “Port-style” wines are made worldwide (a winery in Madera, California makes one called Starboard—get it?), but the real thing legally can only be made in the Douro River valley. At least one cycle-touring company of the area, Blue Coast Bikes, sends clients on a six-day bike ride through this rugged region, visiting wineries and tasting  the many varieties of Port, which include ruby, white, vintage and—my favorite—tawny. People who visit Portugal on a liquor kick should keep their eyes out for aguardente, the local high-octane booze that jokers sometimes like to serve to unwitting tourists who, fresh off a bicycle in the hot sun, lunge for the stuff thinking it’s water.

Still thirsty? Try ouzo in Greece, fenny in India, Madeira in Madeira, soju in Korea, pisco in Peru and raki in Turkey.

Oh, and about that glass of Zinfandel. I was wondering—can I just have tall pitcher of cold water?

If you figure out a way to politely turn down baijiu, China's favorite hard liquor, please let us know. Photo courtesy of Flickr User ksbuehler.

Where there is sugar, yeast will find it—and so we have alcohol. The natural wonder we call fermentation has been discovered and replicated independently in nearly every region of earth, and virtually nowhere is there a culture today in which people don’t enjoy tossing back a few. But what do they toss back? That depends on the place, and one of the simplest joys of traveling is tasting the local tipple—often offered by locals to their guests as one of the most universally recognized gestures of hospitality. While globalization has certainly leveled out the contours of the international drinking world, making the best Japanese sakes and European beers and French wines easily accessible almost anywhere, many alcoholic beverages still evoke the places where they were born. For some rare and regional brews, you may even need to travel for a taste. Here are several drinks well worth a journey—and, usually, at least a sip.

Cashew wine, Belize. Good luck finding this drink anywhere but among the jungles, swamps and keys of Central America’s littlest country. Cashew trees, native to Brazil, are grown throughout Latin America, and they produce not only a nut. The entire fruit of the cashew tree is a gourd-shaped, sweet and fleshy orb from which the familiar “nut” hangs off the bottom. These are separated from the fruit and processed, while the so-called cashew apple is crushed into juice and fermented into wine. If you’re in Belize in May, make an appearance at the Crooked Tree Cashew Festival, where cashew nuts, preserves and wine are prepared and served. Throughout the year, cashew wine is available in most local stores, though how you’ll like the stuff is hard to say. The drink is popular among Belizeans, while many foreigners say they can’t get past the first sip. If you’re up for a real imbibing adventure, inquire with villagers about local wines, and you’ll as likely find yourself escorted into a makeshift fermenting shed where you’ll be treated to a variety of local wines straight from the barrel. Local specialties include carrot wine, grapefruit wine, sea grape wine, ginger wine, sugarcane wine and breadfruit wine. Pace yourself.

Baijiu, China. I like to remind the people close to me, especially on or around my birthday, that “friends don’t make friends drink shots.” But if you’re going to China, get ready to knock ‘em back—because anyone who takes a liking to you or your friends just might call for a round of baijiu, a notorious and potent hard alcohol made from sorghum or other grains and which it’s considered a grave insult to refuse. The problem is, sometimes it never stops coming, according to travelers who shudder at the recollection of baijiu-soaked banquets or so-called “liquid lunches.” Indeed, baijiu bullying is a favored pastime among many Chinese gentlemen (women are generally left out of the fray). Author Peter Hessler vividly described this drinking tradition in his 2001 memoir River Town, in which the American, then a school teacher in the Peace Corps in the Sichuan province, often found himself at midday banquets where red-faced men goaded each other into drinking baijiu until all were stone drunk. The odd man who tried to refuse was often ridiculed and called a woman (big insult for a man) until he relented to “only one more,” which usually led to more taunting by his cohorts and another drink. Perhaps we can learn some tactics from the former President Richard Nixon: When he visited China in 1972, he reportedly fought back during a boozy baijiu banquet; he began proposing his own toasts, although whether he himself was drinking is reportedly unclear.

Bourbon-barrel aged beer, microbreweries of America. A favorite drink among committed beer geeks is beers aged in bourbon barrels. It was Goose Island Beer Company in Chicago that first dabbled in this sub-style back in 1992, aging several barrels of imperial stout in boozy bourbon casks, retired from their previous careers in Kentucky. That beer, the Bourbon County Stout, is still popular today. It runs about 13 percent alcohol by volume, and 12 ounces contains about 400 calories—so watch out. Today, hundreds of American breweries offer barrel-aged beers, many of which taste irresistibly good, often with forward flavors of butter, toasted coconut and vanilla. In Grand Rapids, Michigan, look for Founders Brewing Company’s “Curmudgeon’s Better Half,” an old ale brewed with molasses and aged in “maple syrup bourbon barrels.” In Paso Robles, California, track down Firestone Walker’s Parabola, an imperial stout aged in a combination of wine and spirits barrels. And in Bend, Oregon, look for The Stoic, a Belgian-style quadruple soaked for a time in whiskey and wine barrels.

At Firestone Walker Brewing Company in Paso Robles, CA, cellar manager Jason Pond transfers an oatmeal stout into whiskey barrels for aging. Photo by Tim Miller.

Sake, Japan. Most of us are at least faintly familiar with what we sometimes call “rice wine,” and the culture of brewing and drinking sake is beginning to spread around the world. Still, most of the world’s best sake—the really good stuff that smells like fruity perfume and goes down as softly and smoothly as milk—is most readily available in Japan. Here, more than 1,800 breweries make and sell sake, and many of them offer tours of the facilities and, of course, tasting of many sake styles. Feeling brainy? Then visit the Hakushika Memorial Sake Museum in Nishinomiya City. While exploring the sakes of Japan, keep your eyes open for a style called koshu, which is aged in steel tanks for years before bottling, by which time it has often taken on flavors of chocolate, chestnuts, earth and mushrooms. If you find yourself in Korea—the South, that is (if you go to North Korea, we definitely want to hear about it)—try makkoli, a milky white rice beverage of 6 to 8 percent alcohol by volume.

Retsina, Greece. Greece is currently undergoing a wine renaissance as its vintners and marketers push their wines into the international market. But through all the world tours and trade shows and tastings, and all the praise and cheer for the vineyards of Santorini and Rhodes and Crete, there is one humble Greek wine that got left at home: retsina. This infamous white wine aged with sappy pine resin is the one that Greek wine snobs would like to see disowned and exiled to Albania. Retsina, do doubt, has a reputation as a cheap and shoddy booze flavored like turpentine, but I’ll stick up for this underdog, because I like retsina. Many are the balmy autumn evenings in Greece that I camped on a mountain side and watched the sun sink into the gleaming Aegean, figs and feta for supper, a spicy shock of retsina to wash it down. And while the reds and whites of Greece taste roughly like the reds and whites of anywhere else in the world (yikes – the French are going to keel-haul me for saying that), retsina tastes like nothing else, a distinctly Greek specialty with a smell and flavor that quickly calls to mind the place where it’s made—that is, the dry and craggy landscape of beautiful, beautiful Greece.

Next week: More suggested drinks of the world. Ideas, anyone?

Note the shocking price of this basket of fruit at a roadside stand in New Zealand. Photo by Alastair Bland.

It’s rare that a place is entirely worth visiting simply because it’s cheap. Consider the Republic of Georgia, where one could live on five bucks a day but where the mud streets, drab Soviet food and often bland villages may fall short of inspiring the traveler (though the tremendous hospitality and mountainous scenery can easily win hearts). Likewise, it may not be a winning scheme to entirely dodge a nation because prices there are through the roof. Consider New Zealand, where the superb landscape is like the backdrop of a fantasy filmmaker‘s dreams but where a quick stop at a grocery store can easily pull 50 bucks from your pocket. Yes: New Zealand is worth visiting. But I’ll be frank: I’m not sure how long I can keep traveling here and continue claiming to be “on the cheap.”

All of which has got me thinking: What are the world’s most expensive places? And which are the cheapest? Where should the frugal traveler go? And at what point is beauty simply not worth its price? And so I’ve spent a few hours between trout streams researching the matter, considering first-hand accounts, travel blogs, my own experience and a few critical criteria, like the retail cost of a cup of coffee, the cost of a pint of beer and the price of a hostel as indicators. And here they are, in no particular order, a few of the world’s most expensive travel destinations—plus a smattering of low-priced alternatives (all dollar prices are in $USD):

Japan. According to an August 2011 article in BootsnAll, “$60-$75 /day is about the bare minimum you’ll need to travel around Japan.” And that doesn’t include eating, sightseeing and living with some degree of comfort, which can all jack the cost up to an easy $100 per day. And this site tells us that traveling Japan can cost more than $200 per day.

Switzerland. Trim, tidy and exorbitant, Switzerland is home to rustic mountain hamlets as well as some of Europe’s slickest cities. Among them, Geneva and Zurich are said to be the most expensive in the world. BootsnAll reports that one “can spend $100-$125/day with relative ease in Switzerland.”

Iceland. Like many remote island nations largely incapable of growing much of their own food but intent on keeping pace with the modern world, Iceland is a real pocket picker. Travelers here can say goodbye to $100 to 120 per day if they choose to sleep indoors and eat well. What I think? Fishing for salmon and camping out among the ice, tundra and lava might help cut costs.

Norway. Another modern place in a sub-Arctic world, Norway is a land where people pay for their comforts, as do their visitors. One hundred dollars, according to BootsnAll, is said to be an average daily price of life. Just one latte, for instance, may cost $6.80.

Greenland. Far north, isolated and thirsty for the simple comforts we know, Greenlanders must pay more than seven pounds for a beer. That’s almost 11 bucks. Don’t forget to tip.

Moscow. This report may be dated, but in 2008, a cup of coffee here reportedly ran, on average, $10.19. At the same time, Parisian coffees were going $6.77 and Athenian coffees $6.62. (In Buenos Aires, coffee was going $2.03 per cup.)

The author can't decide: Was this handful of apples and dried figs worth 17 New Zealand dollars? Photo by Andrew Bland.

New Zealand. I report this from my own experience. While this nation is not the most expensive on the list (my brother Andrew got by here last year on $60 per day), it is far from cheap. Today, for instance, our eyes bugged out at a roadside fruit stand where we found fresh apricots going for the equivalent of $14 per pound. And yesterday, I spent $15 on nine apples and a scraping of dried figs from the bulk section in a supermarket in Te Anau. What other groceries here will almost kill you? Garlic, which can run the equivalent of $10 or $12 per pound. And that oldest, most vulgar staple of the peasant, the onion, can run about $2 apiece. Yet avocados go as cheap as two for a buck, thanks to an industry on the North Island.

How to save money on the road? BootsnAll suggests using hostel kitchens to cook your own meals, taking advantage of free breakfasts and camping—but read between the lines! Some of these well-meant suggestions will work against you. The “free breakfast” offering? That requires a hotel room, the surest means of parting with your money. And hostels aren’t always particularly cheap, often running $30 or more. Camping? More my style, except that BootsnAll suggests sleeping in proper campgrounds, which as often as not resemble RV parks in places like Europe and New Zealand and which, in places like Croatia, can cost even a lone cyclist $25 for a patch of dust on which to lay a sleeping bag.

My own advice for nomads on the cheap: Ride a bicycle. Forage roadside fruit, which can be delicious and healthy while cushioning your wallet until suppertime. Sleep for free—though this specific activity was made illegal last year by the New Zealand government. Finally, avoid cars if possible. These grumbling thieves demand gas, insurance, parking and repairs. They cannot be stashed out of sight behind the raspberry bushes, and the easiest place to keep them, one finds, is often in a hotel parking lot. Ka-ching.

Want to skip the extreme frugality measures and still live cheaply? Then go see Cambodia, Peru, Nicaragua, India, Portugal, Bulgaria, Romania or Bolivia.

Don't be caught drinking until this Georgian man is done toasting. Photo courtesy of Flickr user Shioshvili.

The Turks were so patient for putting up with me this fall as I cycled around the western half of the country. I cringe now when I recall the many times, while in conversation with strangers, that I lifted my feet and showed them the mucky gobs of fig seeds mashed into the underside of my shoes, accumulated through day after day of standing under fig trees and foraging off the branches. And, when shop keepers asked if I would like anything else with my groceries before paying, I often shook my head and touched my middle finger to my thumb – that gesture which to many Westerners means, “Everything’s just fine.”

Turns out, showing a person the sole of your shoe and making the “it’s-all-good” sign (which was originally coined as sign language by SCUBA divers) are both grave insults in Turkey. It’s a miracle I wasn’t thrown to the bears. It was only weeks later that I learned what a klutz I’d been. I was gleaning a website on faux pas commonly made by travelers, and idle amusement quickly turned to mortification as I recognized descriptions of my own misdeeds. There is nothing to do now but laugh at how many blunders I’ve unknowingly committed through years of visiting strange lands. Anyway, as global travel increasingly links cultures around the world, people everywhere may be growing more accepting of know-nothing travelers like me—and perhaps today the idea of the clueless foreigner is more charmingly comic than it is gravely offensive.

Nonetheless, there are a few things best not to do when traveling—and this list is a start:

1) In Japan, accepting a business card from a Japanese person without using two hands or acting like you are sublimely honored. Because a Japanese person isn’t fooling when he or she hands you a business card. In addition to receiving it with two hands, one is supposed to bow deferentially. Forbes.com addressed precisely this matter, with no intention of parody, in a 2005 article on etiquette pointers for the traveling businessperson. It makes that scene from American Psycho seem not so ludicrous after all.

In Japanese culture, deference and humility must be shown when exchanging business cards, as seen here. In this image, former mayor of Hiroshima Tadatoshi Akiba has also apparently paid respects to the Hawaiian culture by receiving a lei; to refuse one is like slapping a Hawaiian in the face. Photo courtesy of East-West Center.

2) In Georgia, drinking at the table while another is making a toast. Toasts in this former Soviet nation come many times per meal and may last as long as five or 10 minutes. They are sometimes almost hilariously theatrical until one realizes that Georgians are totally serious when they raise their wine glasses and begin speaking. If a guest is present, especially, the melodrama gets thick as the speaker praises the two represented nations, the honor of playing host to a foreigner, the guest’s good fortune as he or she continues their journey, ancestors, God and so on and so forth—though not always in a single toast. I spent some time in Georgia in 2010. Even at such informal sites as the side of the road, men drinking wine sometimes called me over, filled me a glass and embarked on lengthy verbal voyages. It’s a wonder, looking back, that we ever managed to squeeze in a drink.

3) In most of the Middle and Far East, walking into a home with one’s shoes on. Been there, done that—and with gunky fig jam caked to the soles of my cycling shoes, to boot. Yes, I was a walking disaster in Turkey, day after day committing insults so dreadful it’s fortunate I didn’t make the old ladies faint—or the young men call for their weapons.

4) In the Hindu and Muslim world, greeting a person or eating with your left hand. I cannot begin to imagine how many times I have absentmindedly done this in Turkey. Locals, it turns out, traditionally wipe themselves with the left hand. A tad bit presumptuous, isn’t it, for them to assume that I do, too?

5) Also in the Muslim world, eating during daylight hours during the holy month of Ramadan. Being the old hand at social blunders that I am, I’ve committed this crime many times. I was in Turkey during Ramadan in August 2010, and when I caught myself and sheepishly apologized, the folks around me said I had done nothing wrong. I have never known if they were simply being polite. Because in Dubai, anyway, foreigners seen eating during the Ramadan fasting hours can face jail time.

6) In Hawaii, refusing a lei. Don’t feel like wearing a rosary of tropical blossoms round your neck? Tough luck. Put the lei over your head, offer a generous hug in return and consider yourself formally welcomed to the islands. If you really can’t stand the thing, Hawaiian culture considers it acceptable for one to re-gift the lei to one’s spouse—but not, heaven forbid, if she’s a pregnant woman! Tread carefully. Stay vigilant.

7) In Russia, refusing vodka when offered, and sipping it once your glass is filled. Instead, you must gregariously chug your shot glass of Eurasia’s favorite booze. What’s more, having three drinks is sometimes obligatory at an event for one to demonstrate a baseline level of friendliness and social prowess. Meanwhile, women in Russia might do wisely, as custom sometimes demands, to leave the vodka to the men and drink wine instead.

8) And this one may come as a surprise: In Germany, discussing sports. So I read in this Vagabondish post from Amy Baker, who says German people may think someone “uneducated” if he or she is heard discussing a sporting match.

9) In the United Kingdom, holding up your index and middle finger with the back of your hand facing outward. Britons: Please don’t laugh. Because in America, most people are unaware that this is the equivalent of giving someone the middle finger—and please understand that it’s a mistake if someone makes this sign while ordering two beers across a noisy pub.

10) Finally, in the United States, relieving oneself in public. That’s right, all you gentlemen from France, Germany, Austria and the Czech Republic: Turning your back on a person or a crowd and emptying your bladder may be business as usual where you come from, but in my culture, many people consider it dirty and disrespectful. Why, I have friends and relatives who would keel over dead if they saw such an act in public.

Me? I’ll forgive you.

Anyone want to offer travel faux pas number 11? Or do you have any embarrassing or comical miscommunications worth sharing? Tell us about them below.