Flagstaff. Groovy.

Missoula, Montana. Say it. Do you see that faraway, dreamy look that steals over our faces? It is the same look you see on the visages of people remembering their first true love, first tender steak, first grilled portabello.

Missoula, destination of hippies, drifters, students, Subaru-drivers, skiers, dog-lovers, bong-users. Martin and I arrived there long, long ago, before children. We fell in love with the Mission Mountains and the vegan Indian food and the way Missoula was like a big hand, opening to ideas and art and searchers. We loved the mountains and the hippies that drove SUVs and the bakeries and breweries. We mostly loved being new adults, far away from our pasts, in the midst of exciting people who wanted to hike and chat and fill growlers full of beer.

Missoula, as I said, is many worlds away now. But we remembered it with a bemused longing when we arrived in Flagstaff, Arizona. Flag, as the locals say, is overlooked by the stunning San Francisco peaks. The train clatters by with regularity. Today I saw a man in dreadlocks driving a vintage car accompanied by a shaggy dog panting into the wind from the seat beside him. Women on bicycles wear imported Indian blouses. You can walk to organic food, Indian food, Thai food, you name it--and have a cup of coffee at every corner. Whiffs of incense curl around young men with disheveled hair with their laptops and unwashed shirts and Birkenstocks.

Ah, I thought, as a dreadlocked woman in Indian headscarf checked us out of the organic foods market, it all fits so well. The sunshine, the mountains, the extreme sport shops, everyone in sandals drinking designer coffee. This is our kind of place.

Did I mention that Sedona, with its stunning red rocks and sylvan hikes, is only forty-five minutes away?

Of course, like Missoula, Flagstaff is practically unaffordable. Everyone and her dog wants to live there. And I'm happy to be going home tomorrow to PA. Yeah, Arizona is something out of our early-morning dreams, tinged with the smell of good coffee and drifts of sunlight over our pillows. But we'd miss the hills, and the gray winter that makes us scream for spring, and the mellow summers, and deciduous trees. And as I told Martin, wouldn't we get tired of being around so much total coolness ALL the time?

I want to tell you more about Arizona. I want to show you pictures. And I will. But for now, plan a trip to Flagstaff. When you get here, strap on your sandals. Find some good sushi, and drink some good dark coffee. Send me a postcard.