Another story:
A small-town child, I spent much of my American life daydreaming of a phenomenal job and a Manhattan apartment on a high floor. At 40, somebody did hire me for a phenomenal job, and I did rent a Manhattan apartment on a 39th floor. Four weeks after arrival in fall 2002, I met a glorious soul with a singular face. He’s Colombian, and his residency would expire, so I began to study the issue, and thereby did I learn something I’d never imagined: I’m actually unlucky to be American. Of course, I had to quit the job, we had to flee America, and we’ve lived in London for two years.
We’re still peeling ourselves up from the canvas, if you’ll pardon the aching sports cliche.
The Dish 