12
Party Dress
The long mountain road to Montafon passed briefly over a short iron bridge painted green, running a hundred yards over a bottomless gorge. Philippe lay in leathers beneath a red Yamaha superbike he’d turned up with at the cabin. He’d promised to take it slow on the way over here, but his idea of slow was my idea of white-knuckle terror ride, koala-gripping around his waist in biker gear of my own, wearing the helmet he wore now. I stood off the road, just before the bridge, a giant boulder behind me and a large, prickly bush in front, browning at the edges. The sun was out in full. A blue sky stretched as far as the neck could crane, not a fluffy white thing in sight, except for the trails of cruising passenger jets thousands of miles overhead.
“Be advised,” Philippe said
