Today I had the most beautiful ride of my life, darling. Andrea and I spent the day driving the French Riviera. It was the most perfect Steve McQueen movie ever. There's nothing like driving the Mediterranean coastline in a beautiful candy apple red '58 Aston Martin with a beautiful man at the wheel. And one who truly knows how to drive. That makes all the difference in the world, you know.
I didn't want to ruin the moment so I didn't bring up Africa, but I was sure I just might well have caught a glimpse of it across the sea, though going as fast as we were, I'm certain there were quite a few things I might have glimpsed, but not sure. So don't hold me to it. I was having too much fun what with my scarf lapping the wind behind me. Darling, I don't know when, if ever, I've laughed so much. Perhaps never in my life.
Just the BEST day. EVER.
I can do that again and again and again and FOREVER.
Oh darling, we stopped in Antibes for lunch at 4 Rue Sade, which was idyllic, before chartering a yacht to pick up a crowd in Monte Carlo so we could anchor out at sea to swim. They were an absouletly splendid bunch. Full of life. It was well past dark on the drive home, which in itself represented yet another beautiful and spectacular moment. The air was warm and divine. The entire day was one grand moment of sun and laughter, fast cars, friends and good wine.
Could there be anything more?
Fergodsake's yes, I'm glad we got rid of the brother. On our way back to the HOTEL DE CRILLON we passed the funniest of sights: Fiona throwing herself into her car, out of her car, into her car, out of her car, and again. Some women never change.
I thanked Andrea for the most splendid day and bid him my farewell, as in the morning I must pack for Northern Ireland and head for the racetracks for Lizbeth. Andrea asked if when I was through with my assignment I might join him in Italy. Darling, I had to tell him that my calendar was booked until late spring, but after that I didn't see a problem with spending a day or two on the Amalfi coast. I mean, it's the least I could do.
Well darling, I'm taking a long hot bath and then wire the Post an article on the MOST perfect way to spend a day in France.
Oh, and darling, there were these horrid if not completely wretched Americans at lunch today that simply went on and on and on about their depression, their hate, their anger, their dull politics, their search, their nonsense, et cet., that Andrea asked we be moved to another table. Do you think it wise that angry Americans be let out of their country? I find them frightfully dangerous, but perhaps that's what they call unhappiness. Why do they have the most gawd awful time in letting things go? Seems they've always got their finger pointed at someone 90% of the time with the other 10% at themselves.
Where tragically it amounts to nothing but 100% rot.
They really can ruin a good conversation. Thank God it's theirs and not mine.
Au revoir-
-Jacqueline
postcript:
There was a cablegram at the front desk from the police asking that I come to the station at once. Well, I missed that completely and I'm leaving first thing in the morning. I do so hope they've found my gloves and can forward them on to me.
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