[...] This is how the memoir describes our first vacation:

We traveled from motel to boggy motel, each a damp block or two from the gray Pacific. Most of the rooms had yellow blinds or yellow curtains, a trick to make the weary traveler believe every morning is filled with sunny skies and bright hopes. I cried mostly at dawn, shut in the bathroom, a nubby towel monogrammed with carmel holiday or jolly roger’s inn crushed against my eyes, while Arnold stood outside the locked door, on the cold linoleum, asking what was wrong. We both knew. I couldn’t bear his being married any longer.