It Takes A Pillage
Portland, OR
March 16, 2018
Little did I realize how fortunate I have been the last several years.
St Louis is well-known as the Gateway to the West.
It is perhaps less recognized as a gateway to the morgue.
This week, at least, I chose the option of going west.
With what in retrospect is apparently death-defying frequency, I have spent considerable time in what the “anti-violence” think tank Seguridad, Justica Y Paz this week classified as the 13th most dangerous city on earth, and the most perilous in the US.
According to our experts, the home of Schlafly beer and fried ravioli is a veritable sh*thole par excellence, rivaled by such rivulets of violence and degeneracy as Detroit (Motown is 42 in the world), New Orleans (The Big Easy is 41), Baltimore (Charm City glocks in at 21), and what must be three-quarters of the ciudades, pueblos, rancheros, and casitas between the Rio Grande and the Straits of Magellan (I’m looking at you, Los Cabos: el numero uno!).
Like many cities, including some heaving sighs of relief for having escaped this list (I’m looking at you, Cleveland), St Louis has much to commend it.
First off, I assume few who were rubbed out, met with an accident, or now swim with the fishes shuffled off this mortal coil from the halls of Washington University, the nave of the Cathedral Basilica, or the lobby of the Fox Theater.
Granted, those conducting meth transactions in North County or who window or windshield “shop” in Ferguson may want to do so with one eye open and the safety lock off, but the same could be said for those peddling or seeking wares on the wrong side of any town’s tracks.
St Louis is home to many appealing parks, an assortment of fine art institutions, an exotic City Museum that Lewis Carroll might find far-fetched, a wonderful zoo, a variety of charming residential and commercial neighborhoods, and several of the most beautiful churches in the US.
St Frances de Sales Oratory, my parish away from home, offers Traditional Latin Mass (they had me at “Ave”) in a gorgeous Gothic structure based architecturally on the magnificent Ulm Minster in Germany.
The aforementioned Cathedral Basilica could have been lifted (with really strong equipment) from Constantinople, and would be a prime destination in any European capital.
Its interior walls and vaults contain and comprise a marvelous mosaic collection exceeding in scope any outside Russia, and in beauty any within imagination.
Its predecessor, the Greek revival Cathedral St Louis, beside the Mississippi and in the shadow of the Arch, was founded in 1770 as the first Catholic parish west of the Mississippi, and remains a sparkling gem in the historical crown of Louis IX.
Dotting the city and it’s periphery are a plethora of distinct, and unique, neighborhoods, each of which attracts and enables activity that does not inevitably pull St Louis further up the list of cities where one is most likely to wear a pine overcoat.
The Central West End exudes charm and is eminently walkable…unless one strolls too far north, in which case running might be in order.
That aside, within the confines of this endearing enclave are fine cafés, shops, and restaurants woven among architecturally edifying residences, all along cobblestone streets that are bathed in light bestowed from elaborate Belle Époque-style lamp-posts.
Anheuser-Busch anchors the Soulard neighborhood, in which brewery output can wash down fare from an assortment of pizzerias, Cajun-inspired cuisine from Molly’s, or a hodge-podge of produce, meats, and cheeses from street markets competing for easement and ears with a cacaphony of bars and live bands.
During the late 19th century, immigrants from Lombardy and Sicily ascended and settled the high ground south of Forest Park, an area that later became known as “Dago Hill”, now simply “The Hill” (as that 1970s sage, Archie Bunker, once lamented, you can’t say “Dago” anymore, the wops don’t like it).
The new inhabitants established a Catholic community around newly-founded parishes, reinforced their stereotypical aptitude for preparing and delivering terrific food from family-owned restaurants, and eventually applied red, white, and green paint to corner fire-plugs and lamp posts as ethnic bait to hook tourists seeking “Little Italy”.
Ten centuries ago, Normans crossed the Alps and the Strait to invade and conquer the portions of “Big Italy” from which residents of The Hill descend.
Fire plugs and lamp posts would then have been of little concern, seeing as the Norsemen were setting rather than quelling fires, and thereby provided their own light. Blood, not paint, supplied whatever red that was shed.
Fortunately, the proprietors of such Hill landmarks as Zia’s and Anthonino’s did not carry to the new world the Type-A legacy of their ancestral conquerors.
Not that force and violence are historical strangers to Italian neighborhoods in large American cities, but they are not currently in overt evidence on The Hill.
That said, cosmopolitan St Louis appeals to all tastes, so those seeking 21st century versions of 11th century Nordic aggression need not despair.
You just need to know where to go.
For starters, steer clear of Clayton, Kirkwood, Webster Grove, University City, or even the eclectic Loop.
Walkable streets, high-end stores, choice cuts of beef, fresh seafood, elegant hotels, historic homes, and funky cafes, shops, and nightclubs beckon to these top-notch districts those drawn by the attractiveness of upscale city-life.
Instead, carry visible cash, expensive electronics, and a relatively lost expression into the forlorn expanse north of Delmar or east of the Mississippi.
To get the most of the experience, walk slowly, aimlessly, and (preferably) after dark.
Of course, for maximum effect, it also helps to undertake (so to speak) such an adventure alone.
No need to worry, however: solitude will not long prevail.
Its many merits aside (and, as we have seen, its many merits are often unfairly cast aside), St Louis did not earn its world number 13 danger-ranking by accident.
It did so with the conscious and continuous effort of a proud people.
Those inhabiting North or East St Louis would not long be able to ride their respective cocktail party circuits if word spread that any stranger wandered their terrain without receiving heavy doses of native hospitality – good and hard.
The valets, butlers, and concierges of these blocks will find you, and they will deliver the experience you seek (or, at least that you deserve) with the thoroughness that only teamwork can enable.
If nothing else, they all are aware that to raze a city, it takes a pillage.
JD
