I have about four separate "families" here—July 17, 1973

July 17, 1973

My dearest,

I miss you very badly. I was thinking of telegrams and telegraphs and similar things this afternoon. My love . . .

Ah, I'm feeling quite a bit better right now, 11:40 pm, slightly and healthily drunk. I had dinner with Audre's relatives and they are really nice, her uncle especially . . .

It seems as though these six weeks are running like sand through my fingers. I won't want to go back, I know, although I miss you seriously and painfully. America seems almost as far away as Lithuania once did. Though it is still impossible to believe I am here, there are flashes of understanding and appreciation of how incredible this is, but most of my living is a superficial, day-to-day experience. But . . . my sister Silvute had to keep lending me her handkerchief, now I have learned to carry my own. Many, many tears.

My God, this is incredible. While I attempt to write you this letter, I am talking to the current sweetheart of Sigma Chi at McGill University. It's hilarious—she's Lithuanian, at the courses here, and kind of neat. Totally different from me—painted toenails, false eyelashes, we're discussing fraternity—she noticed my rushbook. Incredible. [Vaiva would be Rush Chairman for the fraternity at MIT the following September. —Jim]

July 18

I've had a wonderful, wonderful day. I went water skiing, and singing and being happy, of course not what I was supposed to be doing. My relatives and their friends are really good at making me happy. I feel in love with all of them, as they obviously without boundary love me. I have about four separate "families" here, and I spend a great deal of time with them. I don't sleep—from what could I rob the time—my classes, friends, brothers and sisters, or letters home? Or sleep? I am getting along on 4-5 hours a night, less than at MIT.

July 19

I'm sorry, my love, the days run away from me. I wasn't in particularly good shape to write last night, as you can probably tell. It was a truly wonderful day, but I was truly seriously drunk, more than I ever have been at home—except once. And—what can I say—it was good. The song-singing especially—fragments of songs run through my mind continually now, perhaps I will yet learn to sing. That, and being among people I can trust, people that will laugh and cry with me without hypocrisy or shame. Yesterday I saw Lithuania, the Lithuania of our parents and their parents, for the first time. Audre and I held on to each other and wept, and spoke with a very old man and wept, and then we sang. Jesus. I don't know how to tell you—I really don't—we sang songs they no longer sing here and have "forgotten" while we have preserved them as in a glass case at home. But here they come alive. I had begun to understand my love for the culture, the nation. Yesterday I learned my love for the land. I am going to return a pretty growed-up person, my love . . .

O Dieve, Dieve, Dievuleli, I love this place so much, more than I ever realized I could. Jim . . . I hope you are well and happy, and I am sorry if my letters are just run-on sentences about myself. I can barely manage a letter to you—this was written at least six separate times and believe me, love, it is not for lack of desire—I simply cannot manage, there are times that I would like to throw a shoe at anything that moves, I would like to spend more time alone. Or with you.

The water has been freezing for several days—I think your going to get back a hardier, healthier Vaiva, if I don't turn to drink. No fear—there is too much to live for. . .

I love you, I love the people here, I love the better part of the world. The rest I hate with a fury you've never seen. But . . . ah well.

Sleep well tonight, my love,

Vaiva