People love to say “you’ll laugh about it later.” That’s what I kept telling myself somewhere between the three missed flights, no sleep, vanished luggage, and food poisoning. Now that “later” is here, I still don’t know if I’m laughing, but I can admit it was a beautiful disaster. If you looked at my Instagram, you’d think I spent two weeks twirling through Patagonia, sipping Malbec in Buenos Aires, and channeling some kind of hot, adventurous aunt energy across the southern

Growing up in Queens is something I’ll always take pride in. There’s this never-ending debate about which borough is the best, and while I respect the passion from Brooklyn loyalists and Manhattan purists, I grew up in a place that showed me the whole world before I ever left home. Sure, our street naming convention might make you question your sanity (64th Avenue, 64th Drive, and 64th Place should not be within 30 feet of each other), but that’s part of the charm. Or the con

Instagram launched in 2010, and like everyone else, I signed up. I just didn’t realize my account was public until my foot ended up online. Not a fresh pedicure. Not a beach photo. Just my foot, testing out the Valencia filter. I thought I was saving it. Next thing I knew, my 12 followers, mostly high school friends and one random cousin, had front-row seats to my accidental bunion debut. Back when a foot on the web was just a mistake, not a side hustle. I was mortified… but