So the days — and months — drift by. This once peaceful Alpine town is packed with rich refugees fleeing the you-know-what. They come from nearby cities crammed with real migrants. There isn’t an empty apartment left, and the locals are raking it in. Two good friends have died, the village is supposed to be locked down, but God awful bikers are everywhere. Yes, they are biking down the middle of narrow paths which makes it impossible to keep your distance from them. What boggles the mind is the mentality of the morons who refuse to practise social distancing. The hotels, clubs and restaurants are shut, so surely they must be aware that there’s a virus making the rounds. But they persist in brushing past one as if it’s touchy-feely season. Don’t these people listen to the news or read about what’s going on? Do they never avert their gaze from the sci-fi garbage on TV?
I am very lucky in being halfway up a mountain and having a large terrace surrounded by a lawn that borders on farmland. My only neighbour, just below, is Geoffrey Moore, son of James Bond, and only one road, marked ‘privat Strasse’, leads to our chalets. But during late afternoons I drive down that road, cross the river and walk along it to the neighbouring village — about three miles or so — and then return. I follow a route called Wanderweg, a tiny path, six foot-wide at most, and still horror bikers manage to invade it instead of using the asphalt road next to it.
The Wanderwegs are supposedly for walkers only, no horses or bikes permitted, but try and tell that to the halfwits who barrel by in their stupid helmets hunched over like hookers giving you-know-what jobs.
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