There aren’t many major American cities I haven’t at least passed through in 76 years.
In fact, when I look at the list of the 50 largest cities by population as of 2024, there are only five I haven’t at least seen and two of them are in Arizona. The only one of the top 30 I’ve missed is No. 10 — Jacksonville, Fla.
The other four are Milwaukee (31), Tucson (33), Mesa (37) and Tulsa (48). Growing up in 1950s America, the only one of the four I would have considered a major city was Milwaukee and only because it had a major league baseball team. Yet as of 2024, the smallest of them had more than 400,000 residents.
It’s actually quite bizarre, and I don’t mean to pick on Arizona, but a city I’ve never heard of — Chandler — is 79th with 281,000 people, two thousand more than a city I would certainly consider major — St. Louis.
There is really only one important city in the continental U.S. that I will probably never see, and coincidentally, today is that city’s big day, at least in years it doesn’t host the Super Bowl.
New Orleans.
Mardi Gras.
It translates to Fat Tuesday, the night before Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent for Roman Catholics. I’ve heard it called New Year’s Eve on steroids, a night when nearly anything goes.
My late friend Tom Kensler used to visit New Orleans every summer for its jazz festival, although I don’t know if he ever attended Mardi Gras. I remember at some point in the ’90s, my wife Nicole was there in the summer for a scientific conference. I regret not going with her.
I was never a great traveler, although I have been to 17 other countries.
That’s nothing compared to my daughter Pauline, who is closing in on 60.
My traveling days are pretty much over, and even if I could, at my age there wouldn’t be any Mardi Gras in my future.
Oh well …