Drag queens, disco and a healthy dose of debauchery: How I fell for iconic gay resort Fire Island

In the year 2000, during my J1 summer in New York, I took a late evening bus from the Avenue of the Americas in the heart of Manhattan to Riverdale, in the Bronx, where my granduncle lived.

eside me on the journey sat a middle-aged woman with a pile of legal papers on her lap. As the skyscrapers shuttled by the window, she asked me about my summer and I told her that I had been working as a waiter on Fire Island, a famous resort, kind of like a gay Hamptons, off the coast of Long Island. She sighed enviously, told me she was a lawyer and added that for every day of the office grind she missed her “carefree” days as a student waitress.

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