Hi, I’m Dee. 🙋🏼‍♀️ I’m a strategic social storyteller fueled by coffee, culture, and curiosity. I share Disney nostalgia, wildlife photography, global travel, and reflections on how stories shape emotion and community. From theme parks to coffee farms, I chase magic with purpose. Coffee is fuel. Sarcasm is seasoning. ☕📸✨

Giving wifey increasingly complicated In-N-Out instructions like I’m coaching the final round of Top Chef. I just know that burger is about to heal something.

RT @JustinRuka: @DeeMagicGurl 1000% - people need to travel more and watch garbage less 😂

There’s something happening inside of me that I haven’t felt in a while. Pride. There are so many things I’d like to see changed in our country but for a brief moment I’m just in awe of foreigners exploring and discovering some American gems during their visit for World Cup. These posts are a beacon of light for me. Distinctly it warms my heart to see people enjoying Texas Roadhouse or Biscuits & gravy. Or, the Japanese poet that is writing masterpieces about unlimited chips & salsa. Or, the Germans getting into Ella Langley. Even the compliments on our stadium here in LA. I can’t speak on everyone’s behalf but I welcome you all into our flawed yet beautiful country. Despite the narratives and what some folks post about on here I promise that a majority of your experiences and interactions will be met with kindness and hospitality. I hope you’ll notice our citizens trying to relate to you and understand you.

In America, a warehouse store. A fully roasted chicken costs five dollars, the raw chicken beside it costs seven, and I stood between them like a man between two truths. Golden. Hot. Seasoned. Spinning in glory under the lights, in a line of its brothers. Four dollars and ninety-nine cents. I checked the raw birds. Seven dollars. Pale. Cold. You must do everything yourself. This is not commerce. Commerce does not move backward. Somewhere in this building, mathematics lies defeated. I asked the man at the counter. "How is the cooked bird cheaper than the raw bird?" "Been five bucks forever. They keep it that way." "But the store loses." "Yep. On purpose." On purpose. I held my receipt with both hands. In my land, a lord who lowered the price of rice in a hard winter was remembered for generations. They built him a small shrine. This store does it every day, with chicken, and tells no one. A woman behind me grew tired of my reverence. "It's just a chicken, sir." It is not just a chicken. It is a wound the merchant takes on purpose, so that anyone, on any day, with five dollars, eats like a lord. The bird is the message. The price is the vow. I will confess: I bought two. I did not need two. The second was not hunger. It was gratitude, and it was delicious. Some prices are not prices. They are promises. I return every week now. I take one bird. I bow toward the deli, briefly, so as not to alarm the staff. They have begun nodding back. The vow holds. The bird turns. Five dollars. Long may it spin.

This is a cult I’d join

The European mind will only comprehend America when they try to go to Chick-fil-a tomorrow

USA. A breakfast counter. The waitress recommended the biscuits and gravy, and when the plate arrived, I thought something had gone wrong in the kitchen. I say this with shame. The dish looked like a construction site after rain. Pale mounds. Gray ladle-fall. Speckles I could not identify. In my land, the eye eats first. A meal is arranged like a garden. This meal was arranged like weather. "Is it… finished?" I asked, carefully. "Honey, that's what it looks like." The man beside me was already eating his. He did not look up. "Just try it." I am a man who has charged hillsides at dawn. I raised the fork. I tried it. I must now formally apologize to the biscuits, the gravy, the waitress, the kitchen, and the entire breakfast tradition of the American South. It was magnificent. Warm. Peppered. The biscuit drank the gravy the way a field drinks rain — THAT is why it is shaped like that, you fool — and every mound I had insulted was a soft fold of comfort that my homeland, in eight hundred years, never once thought to invent. "Well?" the waitress asked. "I judged it," I confessed. "By its appearance. I am ashamed." "Everybody does, hon." Everybody does. A national dish that forgives you for doubting it. It expects the doubt. It waits for you on the other side of it. Do not judge the gravy by its face. Judge yourself, for hesitating. I order it every Saturday now. I no longer see the construction site. I see only the garden. It was a garden the whole time. The eye must be trained.

I realize a lot of folks are unaware of the significance of the USMNT's victory tonight against Paraguay. To put it into context, it'd be like if Texas A&M were good at anything.

Algerians doing jigs in Kansas... Brits eating barbecue in Texas... Koreans doing full on kegstands in Mexico... just goes to show that the entire world can be united by the simple concept of getting really drunk and watching a sporting event

I low key want every foreigner visiting the States for World Cup to take their cholesterol before and after their trip. They're about to be mind-blown. Buddy excited about table salsa, ain’t even got to endless breadsticks or Cheesecake Factory brown bread yet.

I love this sentiment. Never judge a place by its news coverage.

Americans: "our food is garbage" Europeans: "BUCCEES, TACO BELL, CHILIS, WAFFLE HOUSE, REFILLS. AMERICA🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸"

Swear this was plot of the new James Bond game

Happy to be a spy kid tbh

USA. A Mexican restaurant. We had not yet ordered anything, and the food was already arriving. Chips. Salsa. Unrequested. Free. I stopped the waiter. "We have not earned these." "They just come with the table, man." They come with the TABLE. In my land, hospitality is a debt. Every gift creates an obligation, weighed carefully, returned in the proper season with interest of feeling. Here, the gift arrives before you have even proven you can pay for dinner. This is not an appetizer. This is a declaration: we trust you. Eat. I ate with the gravity the moment deserved. And then — I must report this calmly — the basket emptied, and a new one appeared. "Did we…?" "Refill," the waiter said. "It's bottomless." Bottomless. They have wells of salsa. The supply lines of this nation are beyond anything my ancestors imagined. My friend warned me. "Don't fill up on chips, dude." Too late. I had accepted three baskets. Honor demanded each one be finished — an unfinished gift is an insult. By the time my actual food arrived, I was a ruined man. I was not hungry. I was not comfortable. I had been defeated by a courtesy. Generosity that arrives before the request cannot be repaid. It can only be survived. I know the rule now. I have made my peace with the basket. One basket. Two at the most. Who am I deceiving. There is no number of baskets I would refuse. The trust of a nation is in that salsa, and I intend to honor all of it.

It’s really refreshing seeing the Europeans visiting and actually ENJOYING America. We usually get so much crap for not having culture, crap food, etc. but they’re genuinely having a blast and embracing it and it is so beautiful. 🥹

the impact these 5 have had on US soccer and women's football as a whole wow im getting so emotional seeing them together again

June 11, 2024. Rhino trekking

Removed from the refurb calendar today!

It looks like Matterhorn may reopen July 24 according to the latest calendar update. Short refurb!