I never expected to live in America. Hell, I scarcely expected even to visit. I wasn't among the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breath free for whom America represents aspiration, refuge, or a second chance. That immigrant experience, which forms a fundamental part of America's foundation story, isn't mine. Instead I came for love. One day in Ireland, half a world away from a comfortable Australian upbringing I met a Louisiana girl who, when the pull of her humid, musical, overgrown, enchanting, flawed, dysfunctional home range became too hard to resist, returned to her roots and offered me a chance to put down my own. Twenty-five years later, those roots have gone deeper than I could ever imagine. When people say "Love makes the world go around," perhaps that's what they mean.