The cacti turned into palm trees, the mountains into lakes, and the roadrunners became cranes. After growing up in Arizona, I was now in Florida, a new place far from home and the start of a new chapter.
I fell in love with Florida quickly and completely. Walking to class felt like walking in sunshine. Flyers around campus advertised events in Orlando, and everywhere I looked, little details reminded me I was somewhere new. I felt like shouting, in true Samantha Jones fashion, “I have it all!” from the nonexistent rooftop of my tiny, quiet, overfilled dorm room.
Unfortunately, as the honeymoon phase wore off, what felt like the start of a wonderful marriage began to stagnate. Arizona iced teas on shelves, shirts with the Grand Canyon plastered on the front, and conversations about Arizona schools in sports all added up until I couldn’t ignore the symptoms any longer. I had officially become homesick.
I never thought a place I had spent so much time trying to escape would be the one I noticed the absence of most. But being thousands of miles away, Arizona became more than just a place with people I loved; it became a place I loved, too.
The only cure that could quiet my constant reminiscence was music. I found a song that reminded me of home and played it infinitely. The song “Arizona, Arizona” by Truck Stop became my most-played song on Spotify in 2025, and I guess I still haven’t let it go. Even though the song is entirely in German and I can’t comprehend any of the verses, it doesn’t matter. The important part is that there is one word repeated twice, which I understand completely, “Arizona.”
Growing up in the Grand Canyon State, I spent a lot of my time criticizing its flaws. I guess I didn’t realize what I had when I had it. I found myself hating its scorching, dry summers. I was always petrified of its snakes and scorpions, and, to top it all off, I was never even that big a fan of the signature Arizona iced teas.
However, while I was too busy picking out its faults, I almost missed the golden sunsets with pink hues, the beauty of the quiet desert, and the amazing pinnacles of the mountaintops. Looking back, I wish I had hiked them more.
Now, when I go back, I realize that Arizona is my home. Not because it’s my dream destination, but because it’s where my dreams live. It holds every penny I tossed into a wishing well, every dandelion I blew into the wind, and somewhere within it, every version of myself before I left.
So I’ll keep drinking overly sweet, slightly bitter 99-cent Arizona iced tea and listening to songs in languages I don’t understand because even though I’m no longer in Arizona, I can still hold on to the home in which there is no place like. However, I can still find it everywhere.