One morning in the summer of 1967 I made what was, for me, a momentous decision.
I had been sitting in an armchair the entire, tortuous night and doubt that I had a wink of sleep, though I may have dozed off from time to time. At about 6 a.m., I looked around my apartment room. The light was still on. I took a deep breath and pounded the arm of the chair with my fist, saying out loud, "That's it. I'm doing it."
The decision I made that morning was to leave the United States, where I was born and raised, for good.