Flagstaff, AZ

Respite at Grand Canyon International Hostel

Driving westward back in Arizona,the setting sun lights up the underbelly of a cloud cover, revealing that it is the texture of a sheepskin.

I am driving backwards on Route 66 (I-40), backtracking towards the Grand Canyon — I’ll make a loop through Utah and Colorado, and then land back down in New Mexico before I continue eastward. I am not yet on the last leg of driving.

I pull into Flagstaff on a Saturday evening — my hostel is in the center of downtown, all of which seems ablaze with neon “Open” signs.

I had forgotten what a respite a hostel can be. Probably due to the preponderance of vaguely unwelcoming ones in the U.S. In Flagstaff, the hostel with the worst name hands me a real key (!) and charges a reasonable $23 for a bunk. The three other beds in the room are empty. There is a sink in the corner.

To be alone and comfortable all at once is even more magical when I am surrounded by the buzz of nightlife. One knows she could participate — but she earns her weight in the bar tab if she tucks in early with a novel, instead. The coffee is all-day and unlimited. I don’t know if there’s WiFi — what a strange relief for a person looking to post on her blog while she’s here.

A snowstorm is on its way. The wind nearly blew my car off of I-40 as I drove today–especially when a truck passed me. I plan to bunker up here until the storm comes and goes and the roads are cleared. I am buying myself a respite with the money I’d otherwise have spent on snow chains for my tires, and that is okay.