I’ve lived in the San Fernando Valley for almost 40 decades. A few years ago, my wife and I bought a little house in a little town in Vermont—ostensibly as a vacation spot, but also as an escape hatch from the growing dysfunction we face in Los Angeles.

I grew up in the small Midwestern town of Rock Island, Illinois where everyone knew your name, you couldn’t keep a secret, and the people were as kind and decent as you’d ever hope to meet. I love that about Vermont—it has the same feel. Quiet. Beautiful. A place where I can walk, hike, think, and write without sirens in the background. Which makes me wonder: why did I ever leave that kind of life for Los Angeles?

The answer goes back to the 22-year-old version of me, fresh from studying in London and vowing never to live in a small city

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