Kathy to Hilary, July 17, 1973, Tehran, Iran Dear Hilary,
I thought that after writing my excited little letter that I ought to write at greater length, but I have been so excited and nervous and irritable and everything imaginable that I haven’t had a chance to until now.
I have the strangest mixture of emotions in me—my love for change, my regret at not knowing Iran better, excitement at the prospect of seeing my old home, etc., but I think the all-conquering feeling underneath it all is great sorrow. Johnny’s off for school in Paris and I’m off for the States and it will be hard to be apart at first. I’m already upset at the prospect. But one always hopes. I know all this smacks of Terry G. and her diamond engagement ring in the 8th grade sort of thing (whatever happened to her, do you know?). If I say anything about how I feel about Johnny, it’ll just sound corny, you know? So enough of that.
We’ve been selling all the furniture, refrigerators, the stove, washing machine, and TV and the house looks so bare. It’s exciting! (How many times have I used that word this letter?) And you know I could care less about furniture. I’m short of money (chronic complaint) and am selling my records—hopefully someone will want to pay me good money for such vintage discs as the Monkees and Paul Revere and the Raiders. I believe I must have the only copy of Their Satanic Majesties Request with the 3-D cover and think I can get a lot for it. The Beatle records are in great demand—no one has all the old ones.
Has it been TEN YEARS since we played “Bow-Wow I want to hold your hand?” Okay, nine. And seven years since we saw the Beatles! Now you’re an old college girl and career woman, and god knows what I am. I’m hungry, to tell the truth. Ravenously hungry and no matter how much I eat I’m still hungry. Chinese Food Syndrome? Not here! My real problem is dieting. Everyone is determined to starve me so that I can eat pasta to my hearts content in Italy and all the MacDonalds hamburgers and Reese Peanut Butter Cups I crave in the U.S. (Finally!)
Mom is haranguing the maid and continually bitches at us on the subject of how WE’LL have to work when we get back to the States. Naturally it won’t be HER. She’s compulsively turning the swamp cooler down and I’ve nearly died of pneumonia. She comes into my room to look in the mirror every ten minutes now that her mirror has been sold. And in Rome she’ll be up at 2 a. m. to apply her make-up. I refuse to stay in the same room as her.
Enough of complaining about my mother. My anthropology class used to consist solely of Leslie and me complaining about our mothers.
peculiarly pacifist postmark 
4:55:14 AM 
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