It turned out I was an expert at being me: broken, terrified, and lost. I started writing about what happened when I traveled. All the times I’d been led astray, or ripped off, or rendered a nervous, sobbing mess because I needed a snack and someone’s airplane-approved therapy pet looked at me weird. I wrote about visiting destinations that weren’t really destinations. About hole-in-the-wall restaurants and winding alleys and the poetry written in spray paint on the sides of buildings.
