I am keenly aware that my life is oh-so post-worthy. I live in Manhattan with glittering skyscraper views waiting to be snapped from the rooftop of my building. I spend ample time in New Zealand, the land of snow-peaked mountains, glacial lakes and vast horizons. I wear cute outfits, drink coffee, buy artisanal croissants, pet fluffy dogs and shop for fresh veggies. I sometimes even bake my own bread. Yet none of these noteworthy life moments get a mention in a story with squiggly font and seldom make it into an actual post in the grid.

TriBeCa is for rich people and this is how you look rich: soft cream colors and grey accents worn all at once — year-round. Proportions matter too. Sweaters: oversized. Jeans: cropped. Shoes: Gucci. Dogs and children are an acceptable accessory. Fluffy Pomeranians perch on laps and docile Labs eye buttery croissants with longing. Angelic toddlers in Maclaren strollers contently chew Sofie La Giraffes.

The cows were curious. They stood close together, unblinking, swatting away the flies with their tales. First it was just a small group of seven. But as we approached, the herd had swelled — reinforcements trotting over from across the paddock to stand with their brethren as if answering an invisible call to arms. Their coats shone a uniform black and their unruly short manes cascaded over large brown eyes framed by long lashes. Some sported short cow licks and fringe above their eyebrows, like they had gotten a visit from a stylist with a penchant for ’80s punk bands. 

The towel is embroidered with my last name and tied with a pink ribbon. It awaits our arrival on the bed amidst rose petals next to more towels folded into a shape of a convincing crab. The kitsch is definitely in the details.

We’re here in transit, just for a few days, but while some cities instantly make me wish I could stay longer, in Singapore I’m overcome by a desire to get away. 

The day a fire started in my new apartment could not have been more picture-perfect. It was an unusually warm Friday in mid-April. Early spring sunshine gently grazed the newborn cherry blossoms in Central Park. Dog walkers and runners smiled at me on my walk to work. My boss was out, and I spent the day scouting inspiration photos of sparse Scandinavian living rooms outfitted with jute rugs, southwestern throw blankets and Eames chairs for my Pinterest board.

I finally caved and started reading “Eat Pray Love.” I had just been to the best yoga class of my life in a jungle-themed studio with rice fields views. We chanted incantations to Ganesh for 20 minutes before bending into pretzel-like poses while breathing in self-acceptance. Before class four girls to my right hugged each other hello with such intensity, for a second, I thought they might be on molly.

At first, we observe the club kids from a safe distance, venturing out to a daytime party at ://about blank, a place on the fringe of Friedrichshain that boasts a sprawling outdoor garden. Here, dirty couches and bean bag chairs are nestled under the trees and every surface is occupied by cuddle puddles of disheveled clubbers in their early 20s who look like they’ve been on the party train for the past 24 hours.