I’m in Flagstaff, Arizona—a place I once considered calling home. During the confusion of that chapter of life I’ll call My Twenties, Flagstaff was on the short list of maybes. The other? Los Angeles. (Don’t count out San Francisco…but that’s another blog. Probably a whole lot more.)
The difference? I did LA. I stayed twenty years. It became A Full Chapter.
Flagstaff? I’m here for 48 hours, and that’s enough to remember why: it’s a charming mountain town. Friendly people. A quaint downtown, complete with turn-of-the-century brick buildings and hand-painted adverts now all but unreadable. Pine trees. Snow. That slow pace that feels good—for a minute.
But then I remember: I hate winter. I hate snow. Life on a slow pace is overrated. I hate scraping windshields and layering up. (I did that once—growing up in Chicago.) And let’s be honest: no flea markets. No book fairs. No weird, wonderful pop-up art galleries. And where are all the great tacos?
LA gave me stories. Some really great ones. It also gave me great friends, some chaos, and a few enemies; it gave me endless sun and a community of creators, collectors, and beautiful misfits. It gave me access to pretty much everything I ever needed.
Flagstaff’s great for a weekend. But I needed a place that never slows down—even when I need to.
LA almost broke me — and if it had, it would have been in the right way.
