Sedona served me one final contrast in my short stay: banana protein pancakes that flirted with greatness at Wildcraft Kitchen, followed by a dinner at the hotel restaurant so bland it felt like punishment for having taste buds. Downtown reminded me of Mammoth—if Mammoth got a chakra alignment and started microdosing moonlight. It was pleasant enough, sure, but I won’t be back. The energy is a little too “manifest your soulmate through sound bowl therapy” for me. I can only dodge so many crystal shops before I start craving asphalt and cynicism.
This morning, around 7 a.m., I picked up breakfast burritos and coffee from a quiet Mexican restaurant while my family slept off their kombucha hangover. The owner, cheerful despite the early hour, struck up a conversation while assembling the food. She confided that business was in the gutter—record lows, in fact. Politics, she said. Canadians—once reliable, cheerful spenders—have stopped coming. Apparently, the local talk of making them our 51st state didn’t go over well. Imagine that.
She told me she can’t even afford to live in Sedona anymore, despite running a business there. Rents are out of reach, so she commutes 17 miles each way to serve overpriced burritos to tourists on spiritual quests.
Sure, a few celebrities still parachute in, revving up their Lamborghinis and flaunting their bored wealth. But the town’s energy has thinned. The quartz glows less brightly. The chakra vortex feels like it’s in foreclosure. And I, for one, won’t be adding Sedona to my “must-return” list anytime soon.
Cinemorphosis 
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