I’m on Facebook, one of many social networking Web sites, when I come across a checklist. I think, I’m from Arizona! and open the page. The list includes things such as: “You have no idea why 48 other states insist on changing their clocks twice a year” and “A rainy day puts you in a good mood,” to which I silently nod.

Then I read another one: “You’ve lived in Arizona your entire life and have never been to the Grand Canyon.” That’s when I realize I’m a typical native Arizonan. I’m embarrassed, and in an effort to make myself feel better, I start sending messages to friends who were born and raised in the state, asking if they’ve ever been to the world-famous landmark.

My best friend, Lexi, whom I’ve known for the past 13 years, says no, and so do a couple of other friends. I’m glad I’m not alone, but I’m still embarrassed. So, in yet another attempt to make myself feel better, and escape any further persecution — self-inflicted or otherwise — I decide that the girls are taking a road trip. To the Grand Canyon.

Unfortunately, it’s July when I make my...