The New Yorker, October 31, 1977 P. 40
I took a trip to see the beautiful things. Change of scenery. Change of heart. To say goodbye. The more that places, customs, the circumstances of adventures are changed, the more we see that we amidst them are unchanging. I know all the reactions I shall have. Know all the words that I am going to utter again. You should have taken me along instead. You mean him. Yes, of course I wasn't alone. But we quarrelled most of the time. They say a trip is a good time for repairing a damaged love. I seduced a waiter in the restaurant by the port two days ago. I told you, you should have taken me along instead. It wouldn't have been different. I went on from there alone. I would have left you, too. I've already gone. Regretfully, exultantly. A prouder lyricism. It's not Paradise that's lost.