My quandary: Is the US worth visiting any more?

To go or not to go, that is the dilemma.

For me, planning a trip to the United States can be a complicated affair. Maybe this applies to you too.

There is a big, brash, and beautiful America brimming with kind and thoughtful people, many of whom are the unforgettable, eccentric characters you can only find in that country.

Then there’s angry, seething and scarred America where guns, hatred and extremism are everywhere – ready to explode in violence and chaos.

You can encounter both aspects of the country at any time and place in America. That’s the risk and reward, I suppose, of vacationing there. Hence my dilemma.

I have visited America many times – with and without my family.

I was lucky. During each of those stays, I’ve enjoyed the big, brash, and beautiful side of America and the kind and thoughtful people who largely populate it.

I like that America.

I haven’t been to America in three years, even though it’s only about 90 minutes from Toronto by car. A deadly pandemic has caused that.

With COVID-19 loosening its grip on the world, my family and I plan to return to a special place outside of Boston, where we’ve spent nearly every summer since my two daughters were born over 20 years ago.

My wife has asked me not to mention the seaside town we visit or when we usually go. So I don’t.

It’s a sweet, tanned home for mostly sweet, tanned people who open their old, well-kept cottages to strangers from all over the world and across America with a warm handshake and a smile.

Our travels have been a restful respite from the hectic pace of life where we have found peace and quiet for two weeks each year. We dive into the ocean and walk along a beach that recedes into the horizon and doubles as a warm, healing blanket for my sunbathing girls.

This magical piece of America is known to us. It has grown on us – deeply. And that familiarity breeds a strong kinship and a desire to return.

But honestly, part of me doesn’t want to go on our belated vacation to America this summer. Part of me would rather retreat to Prince Edward Island (PEI), a faraway, enchanting slice of Canada my family has discovered over the past two summers.

PEI is a revelation. The thin, tiny island is graced with golden, sprawling hills and vistas dotted with brightly painted farmhouses suggesting a slower, more humane way of life.

There are, of course, the island’s pristine, uncrowded beaches that stretch along the sometimes jagged, clay-red coast of the Atlantic Ocean. The water is warm and inviting, just like the peaceful islanders who call this beautiful, optimistic province home.

When we had to decide at the end of last year where we would spend the best time of the year together as a family, I was torn.

I knew my youngest daughter had made up her mind. As much as she loved PEI, her heart and soul were in that seaside town in Massachusetts that she—like her sister—had visited since wearing diapers, but hadn’t seen in a few years. She missed it – honey.

At the height of the pandemic, my wife had the store owner of a famous candy store in the village center put a note in the window letting my elated daughter know she wanted to come back.

I understand the appeal of a place that has been the source of so many joyful moments that are forever enshrined in my family’s history and memory.

But I’m afraid we’re making a mistake. I worry that a village we adore, which — at least on its sunlit surface — seemed to have avoided the darkness that sadly characterizes so much of America, may have become infected by it. I worry that the place we knew no longer exists.

I am also concerned about the threat America may pose to the mind and body. I’m afraid America is a risk not worth taking.

I have spoken to my wife and oldest daughter about my concerns and concerns. They sympathize. They emphasize that the chance that we will be harmed is small. They are amazed that my normally rational self has been replaced by irrational fears.

I have not yet spoken to my youngest daughter about this. I don’t want to disappoint or upset her. (Fortunately, she doesn’t read her father’s letters. She’s too preoccupied with the demands of school and navigating the world of a busy teenager, bursting with friends and fun.)

Despite the reassurances, I can’t shake this unsettling feeling.

Much of America, for all its appeal and potential, is toxic and dangerous. The land seems broken, consumed with discord and a festering fury that shatters people and places day after day.

No one and nowhere is safe.

The divide between enlightened America and too many other Americans, in too many parts of America, who believe guns are more valuable than books, and who share in the seething ignorance and bigotry of the false prophets they religiously follow on TV, is deeper become.

This is not a new phenomenon. America has always been a dangerous and divided nation.

But that danger and division seem greater these days, hounded as they are by a gallery of con artists and charlatans eager to capitalize on America’s clout in viewers, votes, and profits.

Aside from the constant tumult and depressing cacophony, America has become exhausting. Try as I may, I can’t help but pay attention to the drama and convulsions that bring America one news cycle after another.

I can’t flee America. I am obliged to write about the promise and madness of America.

There’s an impulse in me that wants to stay away to avoid being exposed to a nasty, ugly America. Returning to America – even for two weeks – is a bit absurd in this context.

Then my family reminds me that the America we know and the Americans we’ve met are good and decent.

I will remember this when we pack our bags and leave for an imperfect country that has welcomed us without fail or hesitation.

Despite my doubts, I am convinced that the graceful America still exists.

The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial view of Al Jazeera.