Don’t forget your passport! A friend of mine – we will protect his identity by calling him "Big Idiot" – booked a flight from San Francisco to Bangkok via Tokyo, and in his happiness didn’t notice that the last employee at San Francisco International to handle his passport had somehow failed to give it back to him.

Without his passport, Big Idiot, in Tokyo, was refused a seat on the Bangkok plane. With nary a bow, the Japanese ushered him to a seat, by the toilet, on the next plane back to the States. My dear friend Big Idiot had blown a thousand dollar ticket, his entire vacation, a budding international romance; gaining only weeks of depression and self-anger, through one moment of inattention.

Don’t be a Big Idiot! At least don’t be a Big Idiot like Big Idiot! Know where your passport is, and make sure of it!

Even with paperwork intact, it pays to put some attention into clearing Immigration and Customs. You figure you are there to spend money, most probably you have just stepped off a big magic metal bird, everyone official ought to make way, make way!

Wrong! You are after all at a doorway, and the uniformed gatekeeper does not have to let you in. (Globally, there is a movement to cultivate richer tourists; the weeding out of us poor folk has begun.)

If there are multiple choices as to which Immigration officer to go to, spend a few seconds eyeballing the possibilities. Arriving with a plane or bus load full of fellow travelers, it’s no problem to inconspicuously study the situation while pretending to make last minute adjustments to clothes or hand luggage.

I always try to pass through a male immigration officer. Males are simply less fussy than females. Women – bureaucrats of house home and family - are genetically hard wired to be very serious about “everything being in order” (And God forbid she is studying your passport while suffering her period, of course.). Look for a young, smiling male officer. What you see is what you get. There is a theory that in life an official of the opposite sex treats you better than an official of your same gender will treat you, but in this situation I would definitely go male gender.

I know you are tired after the long journey and anticipating what lies beyond the official gateway, but try to control your wagging tongue. A brassy lady friend of mine when asked by a handsome male officer what her reason for her visit was replied “Men like you honey. When do you get off work?” The officer smiled, but an older supervisor overheard and a search of the lady’s hand luggage ensued. Some mild pictorial erotica was found. The superior reached for his glasses and the lady rashly quipped “These are black men, honey. You won’t need your glasses.” Fighting words in any Asian country! Finally she was let through, being well dressed, essentially polite, entertaining, and with a First Class air ticket, but the footnote in their computer database promised individual attention for every subsequent visit.

Well, maybe she likes it that way.

Arriving by expensive airplane does give you a certain status. Arriving by train, or worse, bus, puts you in the same class with drug users and (gasp!) poor people. It really pays off to be deferential and nicely dressed then. Immigration officials at the ground entry points handle lots of smelly people, risk possible disease, and don’t get the structured breaks of airline schedules. Jesus loves poor people, and Saint Christopher loves poor travelers, but nobody wearing a uniform seems to.

I limit myself to a smile and perhaps a short precise remark about how happy I am to “once again be returning to your beautiful country” A heartfelt thank you and smile when my stamped passport comes back to me and I am gone from the booth before they realize I am really Adolph Hitler. Just out of his line of sight I check to make sure the officer did the stamping and dating properly.

O.K., maybe I sound a little paranoid. But having a uniformed official stand between me and the Promised Land…