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Dear St. Louis,
I owe you an apology.
For most of my life, I thought I knew you — or rather, I thought I knew enough about you to keep my distance. Growing up in the Ozarks, I believed Missouri belonged to winding highways, rolling hills, and quiet towns — a place that felt more like Mark Twain’s riverbanks than a skyline pierced with glass and steel. In my mind, you and Kansas City were like two runaway teenagers perched on opposite ends of the state, always leaning out toward something else.
Kansas City I understood. That city felt familiar — home to my beloved Royals and Chiefs, a place where barbecue smoke clung to the air and jazz poured from basement clubs. But you? You felt like an outsider, an East Coast city that had somehow gotten lost and ended up on the banks of the Mississippi. I didn’t know what to make of you, and honestly, I never gave you a fair chance.
But after this visit, I know better.
I walked your streets — winding through Soulard's brick-lined alleys, exploring The Hill where the scent of toasted ravioli and simmering red sauce lingered on the air. I wandered Cherokee Street, where murals told their stories in vibrant splashes of color, and I stood beneath the Gateway Arch — an impossible sweep of steel that stretches from earth to sky, timeless and proud.
I drove through your neighborhoods, past elegant old homes in Lafayette Square and shotgun houses packed shoulder to shoulder in Dutchtown. I glimpsed the layers of your identity — one part old-world charm, one part Midwest grit — a city that has endured boom and bust, fire and flood, and yet still stands defiant, stubbornly beautiful.
I worshiped in your temples — both sacred and secular. The Basilica stunned me. I’d seen pictures before, but no photograph could capture the way those mosaics shimmer and dance like a fire caught in glass. Each tile seemed to hold a story, a prayer frozen in gold and light.
And then there was Busch Stadium — your other cathedral — where red bleeds into the skyline and the hum of the crowd feels like a heartbeat. I took the tour, walking the halls where the ghosts of Musial, Gibson, and Ozzie Smith linger. I stood in the dugout and felt, if only for a moment, like a player waiting for his chance to take the field. The tour guide told stories like a preacher from the Book of Cardinals, each anecdote delivered with reverence. I felt the weight of that legacy — 11 World Series championships — and understood, finally, why this team is more than just a baseball club to you. It's part of your identity.
But your passion doesn’t stop at baseball. I stood in the frenzy of a Blues game, where chants rumbled like thunder and the air crackled with energy. The crowd wasn’t just watching hockey — they were part of it, their voices pushing the team forward like wind at their backs.
And then there was City SC — your newest heartbeat. That night, I stood among fans who sang without rest, scarves aloft, their joy spilling over like a cup too full to contain it. St. Louis doesn’t just watch its teams; it lives them.
I ate your food — toasted ravioli crisp and golden, gooey butter cake that somehow felt both indulgent and comforting, and barbecue that could hold its own with anything I’ve had in Kansas City (though I’ll deny saying that if pressed). I drank Fitz’s root beer straight from the bottle, fizz snapping on my tongue, and tried Imo’s Pizza — stubbornly square-cut, unapologetically yours.
But what stayed with me most was your history — and this time, it was personal.
I walked your riverfront — the place where my ancestors, John Christopher Armstrong and his wife, made landfall in 1845 before setting out on the Mormon Trail to Utah. That's how long you've been a part of my story.
I stood there, imagining their footsteps on those cobblestones. I wondered what they thought when they stepped off their boat — if they were relieved to be on solid ground or if the weight of what lay ahead hung heavy on their hearts. Did they look up at the towering bluffs and wonder if they'd ever find home again? Did they know that their story — one of faith, hardship, and hope — would still echo here generations later?
And here I was, over 175 years later, standing in the same place they had — not to set out westward, but to pause and reflect. It struck me that Missouri isn’t defined by its two cities pulling away from the middle. Missouri is the middle — a place where prairie meets river, where farmland blurs into brick and steel, where stories overlap and echo in every direction. You are not distant or disconnected — you are stitched into the very fabric of my home.
St. Louis, you are special. And now I see it.
How lucky am I to live in a place with two such incredible cities — each one proud, distinct, and brimming with life. Kansas City will always feel like home, but now I understand that Missouri isn’t whole without you. I see that now.
Thank you for your hospitality, your beauty, and your warmth. I walked into your streets as a stranger, and I left feeling like a guest who had been welcomed into something rich and wonderful. I won’t forget it.
Sincerely,
A Grateful Missourian
