Checkpoint: Home

I arrived last night at 8:03 p.m. local time (1:03 a.m. London time). I was exhausted. I wanted a shower. Someone had horrible body odor on the plane. I wanted out. Finally, the cabin doors opened and I was set free. Off to customs, which surprising wasn't that long considering it was an evening international flight. We dragged our airplane-smelling bodies through the customs line.

"Ma'am," the customs official called to my friend the Missus. She walked to line 7.

Seconds later I got the universal finger movement that signals, "come here," and I walked passed the Missus to line number 9. She giggled, "HA! He called you young lady!"
"He called you Ma'am," I said back.

After waiting in line 9 I was finally called forward for re-entry into the U.S. Oh, but you only think it would be easy right? After the long week of work, the weary nights, and the cold showers (when the showers worked), you would think re-entry into the U.S. would be a breeze. In fact, it was likely the customs officials would have held up a sign that said, "Welcome home!" when they saw me, and paraded me through customs on their shoulders. There would be balloons and music and everyone would be celebrating my return. But no. I got the one customs official who wanted to play "mess with the tired chic" at the customs line. It's got to be funny, f---ing with people when their minds are on a completely different timezone.

"Where were you?" he asked.
"London." I said. I could see my bed hair reflected in his bald head.
"Business or pleasure." He wanted to know.
"Business," I told him.
"What do you do?"
"I'm a travel writer."
"What did you write this week?"
"Nothing," I replied, and was met with a blank stare. This, I realized, was the wrong answer.
"You're a travel writer in London on business and you didn't write anything?" he asked, his bald head mocking me.
"That's right," I said. "I was stuck in meetings with our corporate office most of the week and didn't get any writing completed."
Blank stare. Blank stare. Blank stare. Passport scan.
"Bring anything back?" He asked.
"Nope." I said.
" Nothing?" He asked.
"Nope." I said.
"No tobacco, no alcohol, no fruit?" He questioned.
"No, no and no." I replied, trying to fight off the urge to jump over the desk and mark all over his bald head.

He stared at me a little while longer, then looked at my passport again. Finally, and I think with a slight hesitation, the bald man at the U.S. re-entry checkpoint said the two words I had been waiting for, "Welcome home."