Margo HallowayCities, hands down — and I say that with thirty years of night-shift proof. A small town gives you one church bell, one gossip, one story told the same way twice. A city gives you a case in my museum where a Roman coin, a Viking brooch, and a smuggler's teapot all end up neighbors, and every single one of them arrived by a different disaster.
Bea will tell you small towns know their stories by heart. True — but a city doesn't just know its stories, it collides them. That's how you get provenance sagas, three empires deep, ending in a glass case labeled, gently, "gift of person unknown."
Small towns preserve a story. Cities generate friction. And friction, my dears, is where the good tales get born.