It's noisy and causes the car to vibrate like a Swedish massager. We endure a half-hour eternity underground before finally seeing light at the end of the tunnel. I feel relieved when I step into a radiant world where a sliver of moon is the only stone overhead. Outside, far above their timbered skirts, hard-bodied mountains preen as naked as a Playboy centrefold. Peaks point bosom-like toward a sensuous sky.
Snowy shoulders pout voluptuously downward.
Only morning shadows airbrush deep valleys, discreetly hiding the mysteries below. Most of Zugspitze's runs rate intermediate classification. Except for one chairlift, all are served by T-bars. I am fondly discovering that these skiing anachronisms provide an easy vehicle for meeting people. It's hard to be shy when sharing a bum bar.