Twelve hours later, I landed at Heathrow.

The customs officer flipped through my passport.

“I need your return tickets, please.”

I nodded and reached for my backpack.

Months of planning had produced a small library of paperwork.

Printed reservations.

Train tickets.

Hotel confirmations.

Bus schedules.

Maps.

Backup copies of maps and enough contingency plans to survive several failures.

I unzipped the bag and began searching.

The officer watched me pull out a thick folder labeled “Hotels.” Then a second one labeled “Activities.” I was looking for “Transportation.”

Somewhere inside it, between the subway maps and timetables, I had those airline tickets.

I looked down at the stack of papers spread across the counter.

Before I found the document, though, he raised a hand.

“That’s enough.”

Then he stamped my passport.

~

Twenty-five days later, I returned to England, this time by way of the Eurostar.

A different border officer studied my envelopes this time.

“I leave in three days. Straight home from Heathrow Airport.”

“What are you going to do in England for THREE days?”

“Stonehenge, the history museum. Uh… the Tower.”

His expression hardened.

“Return tickets please.”

I began emptying the envelope again, this time shaking out receipts and museum brochures where itineraries and maps had been before.

My ticket was in there… somewhere.

From through the glass, he said it again.

“For three days?”

There! I held it to the glass.

I just stood there, frantic, pointing at the proof of my journey.

I waited.

Then he stamped my passport and let me through.