That time I changed a flat tire in the rain in México.

Let me set the scene. It's December 2024. I'm on an expedition trip — scouting tours, making connections with local guides, doing research for future clients. But also, crucially, visiting my best friend. La amiga de mi corazón, Maria. Which means tequila is involved. This is important context.

I started in Mexico City, and this time — this time — I really fell in love with the city. I've been before, but something clicked differently this trip. The chaos of the streets, the smell of elote and pork roasting on a trompo, the museums, the Zócalo, the people. I became genuinely enamored. Mexico City is one of the great cities of the world and I will die on that hill.

Then, as always, I made my way to mi segundo hogar — the Yucatán. I did an ecotour outside Tulum: ATVs, zip lining, wall climbing, swimming in cenotes. But mostly I laughed with the guides, because that's the real tour. Then Maria and I spent a couple of glorious days in Bacalar doing what we do best — laughing, drinking tequila, laughing some more, and visiting all our favorite places.

That same day, before the night got interesting, we had driven a good hour to see Ichkabal — a newly opened archaeological site that according to the official government website had been open since September. It's December. We're both marveling at how surprisingly nice the road is for most of the drive. We get to the entrance. It's not open. Not even a little bit open. Closed. Despite what the government website says.

This is so México.

And here's the thing — you just have to embrace it. You have to love it. Because this country will surprise you in every direction, and the surprises aren't always the ones you planned for. This is also exactly why you want someone like me planning your trip, because I know these things. I've been here enough times to know you always — always — have a backup plan.

Our backup plan was to eat and drink and eat and drink some more. I was craving a piña colada. So that's exactly what we did. Back to Bacalar. Which led, naturally, to our night at La Cantina.

Maria makes friends everywhere she goes. I mean everywhere. We arrived early at La Cantina one night while the live band was still setting up — and naturally, by the time the night was in full swing, Maria was behind the drum kit because the drummer had been hitting on us and one thing led to another. I ended up with a güiro — one of those ridged traditional instruments you run a stick along — dancing all over the place while playing it and having the absolute time of my life. Maria has a video of me. It will never see the light of day. Between sets, Mayan and Aztec dancers performed, and we somehow ended up in a photo with them at the end of the night in their full traditional dress. This is what happens when you travel with Maria. This is what happens when you say yes. Perfect.

Now I'm driving back north. I'd rented a car — not my first time doing this in Mexico, but it's always memorable. Like the time I rented a car in Oaxaca, did an illegal U-turn in the middle of the road, and a kid on a little motorcycle hit my car and did a perfect slow tumble across the hood. But that's another story.

I make one last stop in Valladolid at this incredible boutique hotel with a cave you can float in. Actual underground water in an actual cave. I'm obsessed. Highly recommend. Then I get in the car, point it toward Cancun, and start the drive home. I always hate leaving México. It's my happy place. It's where I want to live one day.

I'm cruising along, expertly navigating the pinche topes — speed bumps that come out of absolutely nowhere in Mexican towns and will destroy you if you're not paying attention. I've learned. I know the ways. And then, coming through a small town on the outskirts, I see it: a rope stretched across the road. On either side: a tire, a cement block, and an orange road barrier. And on the left, a group of men sitting on the side of the road like they've been there all day. Which they probably have.

A man approaches my car. Thank GOD I'm confident enough in my Spanish at this point to handle this. I roll down the window. He tells me I have to pay 40 pesos to pass. I look at him. I look at the obviously illegal makeshift barrier. I look back at him. And I laugh.

"Perdón, pero no tengo efectivo. Voy al aeropuerto y tengo que ir."

He looks equally incredulous — probably that this gringa is being so defiant. He goes back to the group, communicates my message. I watch the man holding the rope drop his head in quiet, defeated annoyance. He shakes his head. Then drops the rope.

I roll up the window and drive away laughing. I can't believe I wouldn't just pay 40 pesos — literally two dollars — but something in me completely refused on principle. Hell naw, cabrón. You're not duping this gringa.

So I keep going. Music on, laughing to myself, cruising down narrow roads lined with trees that can almost make your eyes go buggy. Then the road opens up. Sixty kilometers from Cancun. Almost home.

And then I hit a bache.

If you've driven in Mexico, you know that the pinche baches — potholes — are in some ways worse than the topes. They are everywhere. They can be massive. And this one I didn't see coming. I hit it so hard I said FUCK out loud. This bache was so big, the meteor that took out the dinosaurs left a smaller hole in the ground. There was no driving around it even if I had seen it.

I keep driving. Until I hear it. And feel it.

No. No no no. You have to be kidding me.

I have a flat tire.

I look at the time. Okay. I built in extra time because it's Mexico and you always give yourself extra time for exactly this kind of situation. Deep breaths. I can do this. I pull over, get out, look. Yup. Sure as shit. Flat.

And then — I could not make this up — right as I'm about to open the trunk, it starts raining.

There wasn't a drop of rain all day. Not one. And now, literally as I'm starting to change this tire, it starts raining. I stand there for a moment, looking up at the sky, deeply unimpressed. Fine. If I could fix planes in the Navy I can change a flat tire in the rain. Rain and curse be damned.

I get the kit out of the trunk and start. First nut — loose, easy. Second nut... stuck. A kid stops on a motorcycle on the opposite side of the street. I ask for help. He's useless and drives away. It's still raining. I keep trying, using my whole body. And — got it. Hell yes.

Then a truck pulls over with three men. I'll be honest — there's a tiny flicker of hesitation. Three guys, I can't really drive away. But I don't sense anything bad, and I'm big on listening to my instincts. I know it's going to be okay. The man driving asks if he can help. I tell him I think I have it. He insists. And I can tell — these are just genuinely good humans.

I'm honestly touched.

My Spanish is completely scrambled now — I've never learned tire-changing vocabulary and I'm a little nervous about the time. The youngest one speaks some English so we're doing full Spanglish. The man quickly finishes the job. And the moment he starts? It stops raining. Obviously.

They put everything in the trunk. They tell me not to drive fast — the spare won't take it. I understand perfectly. I thank them a million times. I go into my purse and offer 200 pesos — these men actually earned it. But they refuse. They wave it off. No, save it. It's not necessary. Just drive safe.

I could cry. Actually, I might have a little.

That's México. The same country where a group of men tried to collect an illegal toll thirty minutes earlier. And then three strangers changed my tire in the rain and refused payment. That's the country I keep coming back to. That's the country I want to live in one day. The full spectrum of humanity, all within sixty kilometers of each other.

I drive the remaining 60km at half speed, nursing the spare. Make it to the rental car return with about an hour and a half before my flight. There's an inspection, naturally. A small charge for the damage, naturally. But I got the good insurance — and if you take nothing else from this story, take this: always get the good insurance in Mexico. Trust me. Trust me. I sign quickly, explaining I have a flight to catch. Tengo prisa. He obliges. I'm in the shuttle van before I can fully process what just happened.

The other passenger in the shuttle has thirty minutes before his flight. He's telling me about taking ayahuasca in Tulum. I'm just laughing. God I love México. You never know who you're going to meet.

I make it to my gate with thirty minutes to spare. Just enough time for my pre-departure ritual.

A double shot of tequila.

Viva México.