That's what I had on my face the moment I stepped off the plane. That, and a feeling of about fucking time. Not an about time like finally getting laid after more than a first date, or after the end of a bad movie. But like finally passing an RPF exam, or finally mailing off 8 months of work to a reviewing government agency. True relief from a long wait, and this was long coming.
Well, I thought that was all there was to it, then I discovered customs. Apparently being tired and vague to the Agent isn't a good idea. CHRIST! I was detained for an hour to be questioned, amongst other things, about my purpose in England, my profession, if I had work back in the States, how I could get multiple months off of work, why I didn't have my return tickets printed out, didn't have a hotel booked, and why I only had $37 on my person.
I did manage to get my passport stamps and I'm probably not on a terrorist watch list, all in the name of being a stubborn smart ass American. I honestly didn't think there was anything wrong with any of my answers, there just strange. But then to ice the cake, upon walking out of the baggage claim carousels on my way to the exit, I get approached by another customs guy. This round of questioning is about why I don't have any baggage. Now for some reason I claim to be a writer (obviously a lie) and that I have a blog about traveling with just a fanny pack; "I've got everything I need in here," I told him, while pointing to my fanny pack; "I write a blog called Fanny Trekking The World, I was going to call it Fanny Packing, but I thought that might be too homoerotic." That statement clearly showed how tired a red eye can make you the next day. He wished me safe travels with a confused look on his face, and reaffirmed in me the ground breaking uniqueness of Fanny Trekking.
The minor stress of figuring out a new transit system, when I reached the underground, came with delightful relief.