I'm traveling somewhere, perhaps New Zealand. It's time to go home, and I'm in a communal area, like a hostel bedroom, packing my things. I'm rushing because I'm not sure when my flight is. I'm thinking that I can't be late, because all these people are still here, and there's only one or two trans-Pacific flights each day, so they must be on the same flight as me.

But I'd really like to know the exact time of my flight, so I start shuffling around in my stuff, trying to find my itinerary. I have a thick book, and I think I stuck it in there, between the pages. So I'm flipping through the book. I find receipts and brochures from my trip, in time order, and a spend a few minutes reminiscing about my travels.