Your first move is to refresh the email fourteen times hoping it changes. Spoiler: it won’t. You’ll then call your travel agent, who sounds like they’ve been crying into a spreadsheet. They’ll say things like “force majeure” and “we’re very sorry,” which is travel-speak for “good luck, buddy.”
You’ll then drink coffee that costs as much as a taxi ride, just to feel something. Your partner will suggest “we could still go somewhere else,” and you’ll stare at them like they just suggested we colonize Mars. The dream is dead, Dave. Let it go.
The Cancellation Fine Print Is Basically Cuneiform
You’ll dig out the terms and conditions—the tiny scroll of doom nobody reads. It will say something like “Cancellation due to acts of war voids all refunds.” It doesn’t matter if you bought the “platinum peace of mind” package. War is the one thing insurance companies decided is your personal problem.
Meanwhile, your cousin will post a photo from his holiday in a country that isn’t at war, captioned “Living the dream!” You will want to throw your phone into a river. Don’t. You need it to argue with customer service bots named “Sarah” who have no soul.
