Our arrival on our rumbling scooters caused a ripple of curiosity, not alarm. A woman with silver hair piled on top of her head approached us. She was perhaps seventy, with the posture of a ballet dancer and a necklace made of river stones. “Visitors!” she announced with delight. “Did Bernard find you? He’s our scout. He takes the old Ciao to the ridge every morning to look for lost travelers.”
He handed me a beer. “Tell them it’s not a metaphor. It’s just Tuesday.” -Candid-HD- Scooters- Sunflowers and Nudists HD
From the distance, carried on a warm breeze, came the sound. Not birdsong. Not wind. It was the low, electric whirr-thrum of a scooter engine, but higher pitched, almost playful. A moment later, a flash of scarlet emerged from a corridor of sunflowers. It was a Piaggio Ciao, a vintage moped, ridden by a man with a magnificent gray beard and absolutely nothing else. Our arrival on our rumbling scooters caused a
As the golden hour approached, painting everything in a buttery, forgiving light, Bernard the ophthalmologist returned on his Ciao. He parked next to our fleet and stretched his bare legs. “Visitors
