Customary.

It was plane to see.

Toronto, Ontario – The day had unfolded like an origami crane in reverse: new angles, new directions, but a return to origins. Home.

And here I was, so close. Yet, so far.

Having just unfolded myself from a seat that had clutched me for the past 15 hours from Hong Kong, I was waved into Customs & Immigration with a big red marker scrawl across my form. The clocked ticked ominously on my impending connection – my last flight home.

Why would I volunteer? You’ve never been pulled in before? Why would I go by myself? So, you’re a student? The concept of international development was completely lost on the agent.

It had to have been obvious my story checked out within five minutes as he pulled torn bus tickets, hotel receipts, maps, a thank-you card and materials related to BTL from my bags. And yet, he continued to invert every sock, read each scrap page from my notebooks and go through all of my digital devices. "You wear pink polka-dot socks?"

Maybe I should have lied and said I had more than $50 worth of souvenirs?

When I told him I had a flight to catch, he replied I likely wouldn’t make it. “I like to be thorough; some guys don’t, but I do.”

I told myself it was just because I was being pleasant with him, and that was preferable to his having to deal with a line of angry people drained from hours of travel and flights to catch. He had a job to do, and I could respect that.

But well more than an hour later, it was as expected: nothing untoward caught in his fine-toothed comb, and no available flights for the rest of the night.

So close, yet so far.