The landline rang. It was Dad.
“The situation is not good. Pack and be ready to leave.”

Pack what? Leave where?

I had just returned from a winter escape to Mexico. Tanned, full of colours, and with some items still suspiciously smelling of mezcal, I found myself in the middle of a war zone. A quantum leap.

I remember looking around my cosy apartment, loaded with things, and trying to understand how an entire life was supposed to become one bag.

I didn’t pack. I didn’t leave. In the months that followed, mariachi music gave way to the sound of air-raid sirens.

No drill. Front row.

I almost got killed.
Computer saved me. Literally.

As any geek would, at the sound of falling bombs, I jumped to unplug my computer. That movement, that second, was enough. The shrapnel hit the spot where I had been sitting a moment earlier.

Years later, I was making the same packing calculation again.

Red alert. Irma was on her way, set on becoming one of the strongest storms ever recorded in the open Atlantic.

This time, there was nowhere else to go.
This time, I had a tiny human as the primary baggage. The essentials were different, and I had no choice but to have them ready.

My love for ziplock bags in all sizes increased dramatically.

Without electricity or tap water, I watched the tall palm trees bend towards the ground. The wind howled, rain slammed against everything, and the ground itself seemed to crack. Lightning came from every direction. I kept thinking about the birds and all the small creatures. Would they find shelter strong enough to resist that force?

At the time, I was taking care of two stray dogs, an ageing mother and daughter. Gossipy like two nosy aunties, they preferred the constant buzz and never-ending events around the neighbourhood shop. They refused to settle indoors. Domestic life held no appeal.

I managed to secure them in a utility room for the storm. In case of flooding, my plan was to put them into a large bin and float them out in their improvised little boat.

I thought I was ready.

Luckily, we were spared a direct hit.
The ziplock bags stayed dry, and the bin didn’t become a boat.

Possibly because of these rather extreme situations, I often think I should have an emergency evacuation kit. You never know. An alien invasion, the rise of robots, a zombie apocalypse, the collapse of the Matrix… or, on a more hopeful note, the return of dragons. The possibilities are endless.

So from time to time, I make a mental checklist of what is really worth carrying.

Like a gym playlist, the emergency kit changes with moods, phases, and whatever I have recently deemed indispensable.

Hiking taught me packing discipline. Carry too much and you will regret every gram. Leave out what you need and you will regret that too. Even so, I can turn a list of essentials into an extravaganza.

Life-savers first, clearly.

A lamp. A Swiss Army knife. A lighter. A water filter. Zip ties and a couple of carabiners. First aid. Protein bars. Electrolytes. Passport. Cash. A power bank. A minimal but acceptable dose of panic. Just enough to stay alert.

Then the list begins to misbehave. Some honey would be good too, because apparently honey can outlive civilisation. Jewellery, because it can become a currency of its own. A hard drive, because obviously I would still care about my files during the collapse of the world. One small, irreplaceable thing — not because it could save me, but as a token of what I’m saving.

Already a full backpack.

But what if there is no time to prepare it?
What if there is time, but you still cannot carry it?
What if you are allowed one thing?

Of course, we can survive the loss of almost anything.
But that is not the question.

We do not really know what will matter.

So it is settled.
The scarf.

Instead of a towel, one of my large scarves. Light and quick to dry. Warm when folded. It can be a blanket, a sunshade, a tent, or a dress. Its advantage is that it agrees to become something else. And, of course, it’s pretty.

Although, judging by experience, the thing that saves me will probably be something completely different.