CUENCA SPAIN

Harry and I just had to stop the ship to get off for a good while before we could travel further, but I'll save that story to tell if I ever happen upon a long day. Anyhow, the ship was fraught with and weighed down by Americanos, but we're now brilliantly situated in Spain.

You must know, darling, that even though I do so love the Rockefellers, Vanderbilts and the like, I simply could not bear another moment in the states.

The Post rang for an article in Cuenca (KWEN-ka) and, darling, mountains with trees could not have stopped Harry and I from being the first to ship out. I do nothing beyond pinch myself in elation. Well, I sing it as well:

I'm on top of the world looking down on creation and the only explanation I can find, is the love that I found ever since you've been around, it's almost put me on top of the world.

You simply would adore where we are staying in Cuenca. I'm ensconed in a hanging house. That's right, darling, not only am I walking on water, but I'm hanging above it from a rocky ridge! Majestic.

The sleep is big and luxurious. Intoxicating.

I do nothing more than read the local papers in bed with coffee and let the white crepe curtains billow just so and flutter all about me each morning. Delicious.

And the sun, oh darling, the sun is brilliant. Magnificient!
The egg's yolk- the brightest you've ever seen.

I simply cannot hesitate from reviewing myself in this splendor long enough to answer my bedside telephone. It's flashing red, but I've no doubt the messages for me at the front desk all can wait.

This moment is no further than ME. This moment I want to savor past forever. Toledo's just a 1/2 hour train ride away so I needn't worry about this and that or the time of day.

Queen Sophia left the most considerate cablegram for me to receive upon my arrival last night. Her and King Juan Carlos are busy inaugarating the new AVE trains that link Madrid to Valencia on the Mediterranean coast so we will have to wait till early next week to meet; which endlessly delights me as I'm anxious to make my entrance in the town's square and travel a good story from the PEOPLE.

I came upon a local little group mingling about the flower market and was told that Cuenca was a fortress founded by the Moors centuries ago. The house we're staying in is called a Casa Colgadas "Hanging House". Isn't it enchanting, darling?

This evening I've been invited to the Museo de Arte Abstracto Espanol, which is the center of the town's big art scene. The great artist Fernando Zobel use to live in the casa which now is the museum. It seems that no matter how I turn I find myself in ART! Even former posadas and convents are museums to Spanish art. Odd, isn't it, as I'm not that inclined to art, so it leaves me to wonder if art's not following me? Rather than life following art, because that is just so not ME.

On Good Friday they have a procession known as LaTurba in remembrance of Jesus's journey on the road to Calvery; a statue of Christ is carried through the streets while the people bang loudly on drums and shout at the figure. Rather similar to my Friday's, if not my entire predicament, in Oklahoma, you know.

Darling, they've wild boars on the avenues. Last night Harry and I dined at Parador de San Pablo where we enjoyed an eleven course meal such as oyster, bacalao, lamb and what seemed hundreds of delicacies served with baguettes sliced thinner than an onion's skin.

Afterward, we were walking through the narrow avenues when we heard screaming up ahead and saw a woman loose from her crowd running toward us shouting, "Boar, boar, wild boar!" Well, she took a turn to the lane off the right, but the boar did not! I assume the boar aren't accustomed to turns, as more likely than not they're related to bulls in all of Spain. The streets had been quiet as there was no planned festival for a running, but never the less, the boar was charging straight toward us. I'm not certain if it had anything to do with the red silk Hermes scarf printed with golden matadors on its fringe that I had elegantly tied round my neck. There seemed nothing available to stop him in his direction toward ME.

Thank God for the kindest of man, Mr. Rueda, who upon seeing my distress instantly jumped from his good crowd to sweep me right up a flight of stairs and fling me to the entrance of a grand church in procession of communion. So that we landed entwined with the Lord and on our knees. Within seconds, he looked at me with big brown eyes full of amusement and together we fell into uncontrolable laughter which startled the parishoners who looked on us with cold disapproval. Harry, distraught with worry had rushed and tripped into our scene, but I couldn't assure him my sanity for all my laughter.

The funniest thing was, it simply wasn't that funny.

Eventually, we three got up and brushed ourselves out and Mr. Rueda introduced himself to us as an artist. PLEASE, is everyone an artist? Is everything art? Fergawdsakes, I've had just about all the art a spring hat can take in a hard wind.

I suspect next someone will tell me that Hemingway conceived Lady Brett right here on these avenues.

All in all, I think I handled the circumstance like a good sport and told Mr. Rueda where we were staying, as he asked if he could telephone me later to make certain my faith after having fallen during grace.

Well, darling, he already had left me a cablegram at the front desk by the time I entered the lobby of our casa. I read it on my way up the stairs:

Lady Jacqueline-
Grateful for your landing in grace.
Be so kind as to meet my friend, Paul Brandier, and self this evening for a drink at Manolo de la Osa at 9p, please.
And must bring Harry.
-Mr. Rueda

Really darling, I'm in my Portebello linen covered feather bed, white of course, and all that I truly want is to stay in its pillows while the fresh breeze brushes
me into a siesta so as to postpone all things to consider.

-Jackie