When I landed in London, I was to meet the boy who, through his letters, saved me 12 years ago from summer boredom and the beginning of eighth grade. His first letter arrived June 11, 1986, after I'd paid one dollar to be on a list for an international pen friend.

Dear Amy,
I am your new pen-pal from England. My name is Darren Wood, and I am 13 years old. I have a brother called Nigel who is 24. He is in the Royal Air Force and has just come back from Sardinia, which is off the coast of Italy. I have no other brothers or sisters, and I just live with my parents. I have a dog who is black, 5 years old and called Cindy.

We wrote for less than a year altogether, and our correspondence was simple. We talked about the teachers we hated, and discussed how we drove them crazy by acting up in their classes.

...Our English teacher told us to put the desks where we wanted them so we threw them through the window.

We discussed Madonna's talent constantly, giving rave reviews to her videos and albums.

...Oh, by the way—where is Madonna in the American charts? She's No. 2 here. I've got True Blue (at last)—it's ACE!

Although I realized Darren was now an adult, I couldn't imagine what he'd look like. I could only picture a 5-foot-2, rose-cheeked schoolboy in tight trousers and a string tie greeting me at Heathrow.

I couldn't wait to get off the plane, but I was scared to see who, if anyone, would be waiting for me beyond customs. What if he stood me up? Or worse, what if he was there, but decided after seeing me that he wanted nothing to do with me? What if I had to take the underground alone? I'd contemplated every disaster possible.

When I finally passed through the terminal, I was relieved to see a tall young man with a ginger beard and an earring staring curiously at me. It had to be him. Through sporadic outbursts of nervous laughter, we introduced ourselves. I could tell he was terrified, so I greeted him with a bear hug as if we'd been friends for years. He took my backpack and showed me to his car, which I promptly attempted to enter on the wrong side.

We soon arrived in the quaint city of Leamington Spa, and I got a quick tour before Darren dropped me at his flat and headed back to work. I'd imagined him living in a small, thatched-roof cottage, complete with charming red door, and a Welsh Corgie waiting patiently out front. I was somewhat surprised to see a typical apartment complex with all the modern conveniences. The only difference was the hot water, which you had to heat by flipping a switch. I realized this only after hurriedly washing nine hours of flight grime from my body in an ice-cold trickle of water. After cleaning up, I set out to wander the cobblestone streets.

Darren came in from work around 9:30 that night and we had supper at a small bistro in town, where we began to catch up on college stories and careers. He'd studied to be an architect, but decided after two years of mixing cement to pursue a job as a computer games programmer—pretty close to what he'd dreamed of as a kid.

...What are your favourite subjects in school and what do you want to do when you leave school? I woud like to be a graphic designer and am quite good at technical drawing.

I'm proud to say that after an evening out with Darren's friends and a few too many pints of the black stuff, I managed to capture the title of "honorary bloke" with his mates. They were anxious to get together with his American pen pal for an evening of laughs about our childhood correspondence. Since we hadn't brought our letters and photos, we had to relive the stories for their amusement.

The question of why we stopped writing came up, and when I explained that it was because soon after receiving my photo, Darren started signing his letters "Love" instead of "From," they howled. He did one-up me, though, by sharing that I'd broken his toilet seat first thing upon my arrival. Fat jokes and comments about heavy Americans were finished off by his eager promise to visit me in the United States and break my things.

We set off for my favorite city in the world, Bath. I'd visited there a few years ago while working for a brief time in the United Kingdom. I wasn't able to contact Darren on that visit. (Oddly enough, he had once worked for a short time in my hometown, Seattle, but he hadn't had the time to search for me.)

The time passed quickly as we toured Wiltshire County, from Bath to Stonehenge to Woodhenge, which resembled a worn roundabout. Soon, we'd have to part. I'd stay at the hostel with a room full of strangers before braving the Welsh coast on my own; he'd return to Leamington Spa to begin a new workweek.

I knew our goodbye would be difficult, for in just a week we'd formed an incredible friendship. Not many people get the opportunity to meet their childhood pen pal and experience their country with them, enjoying each minute together.

Seems funny now, recalling how afraid I was when I stepped off that plane, wondering if we'd "get on."

When we said our good-byes, we promised that we'd never lose contact again. We also admitted that although our meeting this way was a bit odd, it was one of the best experiences in our lives. I remember his parting words as he loaded up his car and drove away. "It's been mad, Amy."