This spring, I was given a chance to visit the Grand Canyon while staying at the hotel Little America Flagstaff. The hotel had just remodeled a number of their lodges and I’d been eager to see the area and its very famous main attraction for ages. I leaped at the opportunity.
If I’m being honest, I’ve this very millennial idea in my head that I was going to go “find myself at Grand Canyon” for years now. I’m not entirely sure why I thought staring down into an enormous hole was going to answer all of my life’s questions, but for some reason I went expecting a “Eureka!” moment. Months earlier, I’d even booked an Arizona flight on my own dime, but canceled hours before takeoff. At the time, I couldn’t get over being stuck on a plane for six hours. I’m barely okay after three. Six would’ve had me on the news.
Another reason or the cancellation? I get scared of the unknown (though, ironically, I hoped travel would cure that). Wanting to reclaim this fear is why I rebooked months later. It’s why I braved a long plane ride, head full of ideas about the sorts of realizations my big adventure.