The windshield wipers fought a heroic battle against the driving winter rain, but a much larger storm was brewing in my head. It was Monday morning, the busiest travel day of the year due to the weather, and I was on my way to Mexico. At least, that was the plan.

While I was being driven through the morning rush hour, my phone buzzed in my hand like an omen of bad news. It was Eric. While my journey was going smoothly, he had landed in travel purgatory: the entire rail network had collapsed. "Everything is cancelled," he texted. No trains, no buses, only departure boards glowing red with delays.

The atmosphere at the airport was anything but "vacation-ready." The air felt thick with collective stress and the scent of overpriced coffee. "The gate closes at 09:40," the woman at the check-in desk told me with the emotionless precision of an executioner. My watch read 09:15. Eric was in a taxi somewhere between the highway traffic and a prayer, wrestling with a 25kg suitcase. Why he needed 25 kilograms of gear for a country where you spend half your time in swimwear is a mystery I’ll likely never solve.

I made a decision: I had to head through security alone. Not because I was willing to leave him behind, but because I knew that if we both had to sprint later, I would be the one slowing us down. Naturally, the security scanner singled out my bag for an intensive search. As the officer inspected my liquids with agonizing slowness, I could practically hear the gate slamming shut in my mind. I had made a pact with myself: if he’s not there, I’m not boarding. We go home together, or not at all.

Finally, after what felt like a marathon through the terminal, it happened. Just as I was about to go shopping to calm my nerves, I spotted him. He looked tired and hot from the stress. He had to pay a lot for the taxi, but he made it. We were finally ready to go to Mexico.