It probably doesn’t much matter. I mean, dead is dead, right? Being dead in, say, Tuscany can’t be much different from being dead in Hull in Yorkshire, or dead in Stockton, California. When you’re dead, you’re probably not going to care whether you’re all by your lonesome in a soybean field in Nebraska or sharing space with Jimmy Hoffa under the end zone of Giants Stadium in New Jersey. So practically speaking, it probably doesn’t much matter where you’re dead.

But if you’re going to be dead, what’s the point of being practical? So you might as well be dead someplace pleasant.

Me, I have my eye on a little hill somewhere in rural Maine. Quiet, peaceful, beautiful. Winters are tough, but why would I care? It’s not like I’d have to do any shoveling.