This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.
See below for an excerpt from the book…
Coming soon!
An excerpt from the book:
When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.
Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone one of his captors had called Doug.
It was not the name that worried him so much, it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.
Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there was any number of sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.
But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and costly, mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt he would soon find out.
His mother, and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.
At the time he couldn’t help himself and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation which ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.
For several days he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.
Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.
Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, literally, it made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head trying to prevent a re-occurrence. It was to no avail.
Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.
It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.
It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.
Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.
Except, of course, when it came to Harry.
He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.
So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.
There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.
So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.
There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.
She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.
Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.
Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.
Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile Harry had considered doing it himself.
Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticized trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.
Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.
Yes, it’s that huge device that is attached to a tall building and either raises or lowers building materials. I’ve often wondered how the drive, so far up in the air can see where to pick up or drop a load.
Typically cranes are used to move large or heavy loads, like large fiberglass swimming pools from the roadside into the front or back yard.
The are train breakdown cranes, dock side cranes and broken down cranes, usually on the road in the middle of rush hour.
They used to have dog men, people who hung on grimly, going up or down with the load. Not me when the building is sixty or seventy floors up.
There can be smaller cranes built on trucks that are for smaller jobs like lifting boats, sometimes parts of houses. We had one near us once lifting a swimming pool into a front yard.
Then there is the crane, a bird. Cranes are usually tall birds with long legs.
In Asia the crane symbolises happiness and eternal youth whereas in Japan the crane symbolises good fortune and longevity.
And other uses such as:
The boy craned his neck to see the batter hit a home run.
Usually if I crane my neck, it causes days of muscular pain, ie literally the definition of a pain in the neck!
It means to distort your body or neck in order to see something more clearly, especially if you are in a bad position, like behind a pylon or tree.
It can also be used to describe a trolley with a large boom with a camera attached.
There was something about this one that resonated with me.
This is a novel about a world generally ruled by perception, and how people perceive what they see, what they are told, and what they want to believe.
I’ve been guilty of it myself as I’m sure we all have at one time or another.
For the main characters Harry and Alison there are other issues driving their relationship.
For Alison, it is a loss of self-worth through losing her job and from losing her mother and, in a sense, her sister.
For Harry, it is the fact he has a beautiful and desirable wife, and his belief she is the object of other men’s desires, and one in particular, his immediate superior.
Between observation, the less than honest motives of his friends, a lot of jumping to conclusions based on very little fact, and you have the basis of one very interesting story.
When it all comes to a head, Alison finds herself in a desperate situation, she realises only the truth will save their marriage.
But is it all the truth?
What would we do in similar circumstances?
Rarely does a book have me so enthralled that I could not put it down until I knew the result. They might be considered two people who should have known better, but as is often the case, they had to get past what they both thought was the truth.
And the moral of this story, if it could be said there is one, nothing is ever what it seems.
Sometimes, you don’t realise how fortunate you are until you make the mistake of taking it all for granted.
That, of course, begged the question of how dangerous it might be if you were to simply ask, what if….
My problem was that everything came too easy, not that I’m complaining, but it seemed to me that those who struggled were better equipped to deal with problems.
Again, I’m not complaining, but…
It was just a statement in the middle of an innocuous conversation with my sister, who had what seemed to be the perfect life
A husband she had known since middle school, the perfect 2.4 children, the perfect job, and the perfect life.
I, on the other hand, never found the right girl, relationships would last about a year, sometimes longer, then peter out, and there was no likelihood of children, but I did have the perfect job, running my own bookstore
It was all I ever wanted to do.
Oh, sorry, and write. But although I could sell books, and I always had a million ideas for writing a book, I could never sit down in front of a blank page and put those million ideas down on paper.
And until I could, I would never be happy.
“And that’s why you’re a hopeless case,” Jenny said, smiling at me over the table. “Now, pass me the salt.”
Sunday evening dinner at her apartment, with the perfect partner and perfect children, eating dinner prepared by the perfect cook.
I had just lamented again my inability to find the right one and be able to return the dining favour.
“I should learn to cook myself.”
“The day that happens, Jay is the date the works as we know it will end. You need to get a hobby, play a sport, or go to places where you might find that special someone. It is clear dating sites and singles bars are not the way to find Miss Right.”
I was beginning to wish that I hadn’t told her about my last disaster.
“Perhaps the girl of your dreams will walk into your bookstore and sweep you off your feet.”
Larry, the perfect husband, had that ingratiating manner of making a perfectly normal comment sound like a sarcastic retort.
To counter his thrust, I parried with, “Well, there was this dreamy young lady who came in the other day and had the most exquisite accent. She was probably a Russian spy,”
Jenny shook her head. “How is the next best-selling spy thriller going?”
“The same as usual. Can’t put words on paper.”
“Perhaps you should try and act it out in real-time. Some places can fulfil a wish, up to a certain point, for a price.” Larry was also full of good ideas, just never remembered where he got them from.
“There you go,” Jenny said. “Problem solved. Now, who wants my famous Apple pie?”
It was an interesting notion that Larry raised, and one I thought about, on the way back to my apartment. It did make me wonder how the perfect husband knew about what was essentially a fantasy-fulfilling business.
And when I searched high and low on the internet for it, or anything like it, I couldn’t find anything. Except when I used the actual words fantasy fulfilment and came back with two women who were quite literally mind-boggling.
That I didn’t need.
That notion of acting out my story stayed in my mind and was the last thought I had before dropping into an uneasy sleep.
The next morning was the same as any other. I got up, dressed, and went down to the cafe next to the bookstore and got a coffee and croissant. And said hello to my sister who owned the cafe.
The two shops were part of the building that housed the shops, our apartments, and five other businesses, left to us by our parents as our inheritance. Our little slice of New York in Brooklyn.
“How’s that search for a fantasy going?” She asked as she handed me the coffee.
“How did you.. “
“Your eyes lit up. I could tell it made its mark.”
“I didn’t find anything. I looked. How does Larry know about it?”
“He knows lots of stuff about lots of stuff. You’ll find it. You’re just not using the right search words. Now, be off with you. This is the rush hour, you know.”
I took the croissant from another girl and nodded, but she was already onto the best three customers, the line out the door. Three years on a tow shed won the best cafe in the neighbourhood.
I went next door and opened the door. I was not expecting a lot of customers because these days most people buy their books online.
My store had lots of obscure titles, out of print and first editions. People only came. I’d they were specifically looking for something rare or hard to find. I also sold books written by my favourite fiction authors and one day hoped to have a book signing.
That was a hope that would have less chance than my desire to write a book.
Three customers, three books each sought out at this particular obscure bookshop. Three more five-star reviews on the internet, which probably wouldn’t mean anything in the greater scheme of things.
I didn’t need to work. The way my father had structured our inheritance gave us both a very adequate income, but Henny had insisted we didn’t become idle. She wasn’t going to stop working, as much as Larry wanted her to because she wanted somewhere to go and something to do other than being a mother.
I liked the idea of having somewhere to go, I had several assistants who came and spent their days rearranging the shelves and keeping the dust at bay. There were not a lot of sakes, but they didn’t care. They had the same reverence for books as I had. We were all fighting the digital revolution in our own way.
Perry, a kid who tried to steal a book on his first visit, came from out back with a laptop in his hand. “Found a place.”
It didn’t take long to find out he needed money for his family, so I offered him a job. He said he knew nothing about books, I said I didn’t either when I started.
I’d told him what I was looking for and he said to leave it with him.
“Just what are you looking for. If it’s a woman, I know if a few places, if it’s something else, there are places you just don’t want to go.”
Unlike Larry, I knew Perry knew what he was talking about. “I have no idea what I want or what I would like. I was hoping they might set up a few scenarios so I can do some writing.
He shrugged, then left the laptop on the desk and went back to the shelves.
Another customer came in and interrupted my search, and it took some time before we found the book he was seeking, filed in the wrong spot. It was, I thought, an attempt by the universe to distract me from finally finding a way to start writing.
It didn’t.
I went through the list that Perry had made, and there was one place that seemed familiar, a name had heard once before in a conversation, the one time I went to the local writing group gathering at a nearby Cafe, one that wasn’t Jenny’s.
I called them.
It was an odd conversation because I had expected the person who answered the phone to announce the name of the company. Instead, it was a simple “Hello.”.
Which left me asking if I was speaking to a representative of the StoryTime organisation.
The answer was a tentative yes as if the person on the other end of the phone wasn’t quite sure who they were working for, or it was one of the answering services who answered for a dozen different places.
Then she asked for my name and phone number and the times I would be available to talk. I gave her the information and hung up, not expecting to hear from them again.
At the end of the day, I locked the door and went up to my apartment. Jenny had long since shut the door and had gone to collect her children from the friend who collected them from school.
Larry rarely got home before six at night, if he was not working back.
I had a container with leftover dinner from Jenny who knew I didn’t cook, often ate takeout, which was not very healthy, and insisted I eat with them most nights. Tonight, it was chicken something.
As I got another Budweiser from the fridge, my phone buzzed, and it was an incoming message from StoryTime. A list and a short description of the ‘products’ they were offering.
One, the romance package, where the customer meets up with a prospective target in an unusual manner, and then plays out any one of a dozen different scenarios. Each of the scenarios will be provided, but it doesn’t necessarily need to run to the script.
Two, the romance with adventure package, where there is danger involved, and similar to the adventure package, there are a dozen different scenarios that can play out.
Three, the thriller package, is not for the faint-hearted or those with heart conditions. Some hard work and full-on exercise will be needed. There can be a romantic element to this, too.
A questionnaire is attached which you will be required to fill in as much as possible so we can have a good idea of what to set up as a mission biography and parameters.
It was strictly prohibited once the mission started for it to stop except for very exceptional reasons. To date, no mission has been terminated mid-way through. Our actors are also using these experiences to enhance their talents and sign on for the duration.
The fee paid is not refundable and covers all costs, including any necessary paperwork such as identity information required to participate.
Then it stated the price, and I nearly fell off my chair. But if I wanted the experience, it would be worth it, or at least I hope it would be.
A quick scan of the multipage questionnaire that set the parameters of the adventure showed the level if detail they required, but not only that, was basically the level of planning I needed to do for writing the book.
Perhaps by the end of filling it out, I wouldn’t need to participate, I would have the plan I’d need meaning to do for a long time.
Of course, I picked the thriller with a touch of romance. Running through my head at the time were the countless noir Hollywood movies of the 30s, 49s and 50s, about hardnosed private detectives like Sam Spade and Phillip Marlowe, and a hankering to recreate that era, but in this day and age it was not possible
I had to pick a name and that had never been a problem, the first name of a great, great grandfather, and the last name of my mother, Alphonse Burgoine, and the theme, the search for a missing person, which I would leave to them to decide who it would be.
Various other details made up the character, a series of ticks in boxes, the most interesting, languages spoken, of which I could speak French and German like my mother who ensured I was fluent in both, and a smattering of Russian and Spanish, after my father who preferred only English to be spoken.
Other than that, It took three days to fill out that form and another seven before I sent it back and paid the fee.
The next day, I received an email that simply said,
‘Your fantasy is being constructed. The next email will be the first instructions when you assume your character, and from then on, immerse yourself completely.
‘Everyone else associated with this construct will be in character and will ignore any comment or behaviour outside the construct.
‘You will be observed, and if there are more than three infractions, the fantasy will end. At times, various parts of the fantasy may seem real, but they are not. Also, always remember that other people are playing roles, and their words and actions are not to be mistaken as real.
It is important to remember that you requested this and that you should make the most of the opportunity.’
Like a Hollywood movie, I thought.
I heard nothing for a month. I was beginning to think that it was all an elaborate scam when a new message arrived.
‘Pack for a week.’
It gave an address, the office of Bellevue Investigations, and the apartment above the office where I would be staying. Everything I would need was there. There were other pieces of information like the names of several others participating.
I told Perry he was in charge. It was not for the first time. I told Jenny the people had called and told me my adventure was about to start and packed for the week.
With no idea what was about to happen, I took a long look at the apartment, took a deep breath, stepped outside, and locked the door.
The next time I stepped through that door, I hoped I had a story to write, and not that I should have been content with what I had, and let the proverbial sleeping dogs lie.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
This is Chester. We’re getting by during the ‘stay at home’ order.
I’m doing just that, though it sometimes feels like I’m in jail, on the inside looking out.
“Now you know how I feel”, Chester tells me, after jumping up on the window ledge to look out the window, trying to see what had caught my interest.
I don’t tell him I’m basically staring into space.
Except, a car passes, not fast, not slow, but much like the rest of the traffic that passes by. Or used to. With the order to stay at home, and the fact schools are not open, there have been fewer and fewer cars passing by.
“Didn’t that car…” Chester mutters.
He’s right. The same car just went back the other way. Slow, but not too slow.
“Perhaps’s he’s looking for a house, a particular address.”
We watch and wait.
Five minutes later the car has returned and stops outside my window. A man gets out the passenger side, says something to the driver, then closes the door. He starts walking back up the street from where the car had just come.
The car drives off, then a minute later is back, and parks on the other side of the road. We can see the driver. Not the sort of person you’d want to need on a dark night. Tattoos on his arm, and smoking a cigarette, negligently stopping ask on the road below his window.
“He’s watching,” Chester says.
“He’s a lookout?”
We’re both thinking the same. A crime is being committed. They’ve scoped the street for an unattended house, a rarity for obvious reasons, though these days robbers rob the house while you’re still in it.
We wait. Three minutes later the other man comes running very quickly to the car, jumps in and they drive off very quickly before the man had closed the door.
Seconds later another man appears with a baseball bat in his hand.
“Close call,” Chester says, interest now waning. He jumps down. “Pity they didn’t catch the robber.”
Perhaps. But one thing is for sure, those robbers will not be back.
Diversion over, back to boredom. Chester has gone back to one of his hiding spots. I’m going to do another crossword.
Six months is going to be a long, long, long, long time.
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on the back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.
The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Chasing leads, maybe
…
A second later the light came on and I was temporarily blinded.
The woman had to be on the other side of the door, and coming into the room, I must have passed her. Her voice sounded quite old, so it must be the mother.
“Turn around, slowly.
I did. By that time my eyes had readjusted, and I could see a woman, still dressed, with what looked to be an Enfield WW1 rifle. Just as dangerous now as it was then, particularly at this close range.
“Mrs Quigley, I presume,” I asked. Remain polite and conversational and keep her from getting nervous.
“Who are you?”
“Sam Jackson.”
“Is that your real name?”
“Why would you presume to think it wasn’t?”
“You’re breaking into my house which means you’re a criminal, and criminals by nature are also liars. Why would I think you any different to the rest?”
Good question. “I knew your son.”
“Which one?”
“Adam.”
“He’s not here. He hasn’t been around since he gallivanted off overseas a few years back.”
“I saw him only a few days ago, in London. Not gallivanting, by the way, but with feet firmly planted on the ground.”
“He’s not here.”
“Do you know where he is?”
She didn’t know he was dead, and I didn’t think it was my business to tell her. That was Dobbin’s job, and I was surprised he hadn’t. Or, I only had her word for it he hadn’t.
“Are you hard of hearing.” Get into the middle of the room.”
I moved slowly into the middle, watching her edge slowly towards the writing desk while keeping the gun aimed at me. If I tried to run for it, and if she was any sort of shot, I’d be dead before I got three, possibly four paces. If I could get a shred of surprise.
I hadn’t seen the phone on the desk, and watched her pick up the receiver, and, with the same hand, started dialing a number.
“Put it down.” Another voice, another woman, coming from the doorway.
Jennifer.
With a gun in hand, pointed at the woman.
“What if I shoot him, or you?”
“You’ll be dead before either scenario happens. Just put it down. I’m not here to shoot anyone if I can help it.”
Of course, this was just like one of those scenes out of a comedic spy film. Guns pointing in all directions.
And, true to form, a click, and a voice. “You put your weapon down.”
He appeared out of the shadows and had the gun pointed straight at Jennifer’s head at very short range.
Adam Quigley, aka O’Connell, and very much alive.
Jennifer dropped her gun, but Adam didn’t take his gun off her.
This book has finally reached the Final Editor’s draft, so this month it is going to get the last revision, and a reread for the beta readers.
…
What’s the best way to recover from being shot by the police? Go on an all-expenses paid holiday.
Within reason, of course.
Of course, he was on holiday, not quite all expenses paid, but for the duration of the conference. Getting shot and having a prolonged stay in hospital put paid to that, but there is an upside.
The police, in exchange for silence and an indemnity, are happy to send our intrepid conference goer on a tour of Italy. There are benefits on either side, the police don’t get a lawsuit, and he gets to spend a few days touring.
Of course, Maryanne decided to tag along. She had been filling in for him at the conference, unbeknownst to him, and lined up a couple of free venues. In exchange for favourable reviews.
But what is the real reason Maryanne is along for the ride, or she might put it, ‘carry the bags’?
That saying ‘if it’s too good to be true, it probably is’ sticks in the back of his mind, but he doesn’t discourage her from coming with him.
Along with My Fair Lady, another of my favorite musicals was Sound of Music and having seen it a number of times over the years, it had conjured up a number of images of Salzburg in my mind, and with them a desire to go there. We had been to Salzburg once before, an overnight train stop between Vienna and Innsbruck, an afterthought, but what we saw then was reason enough to come back later and spend several days.
A pity then the day we arrived, and for much of our stay, it rained. But, like hardened travelers, very little stops us from doing anything, and particularly sightseeing.
We stayed at the Crowne Plaza – The Pitter in a very well-appointed room. Breakfast included, it was a great way to start the day. The afternoon we arrived we went for a short walk to the old city passing through the Mirabelle gardens with the Pegasus Fountain, Rose Garden, and Dwarves Garden. Later we discovered that the archway had been used in part of the filming of Sound of Music.
We took the Festungsbahn funicular railway up to the Fortress Hohensalzburg, dating back to 1077, and the largest fortress still standing in Europe. We spent a pleasant afternoon wandering through the rooms and exhibits and then had lunch at a café, the Salzburg Fortress Café, that overlooked the countryside. This was where we were introduced to Mozart Gold Chocolate Cream added to our coffee.
It led us to search for the product which we eventually found in a confectionary store, Holzemayr in the Alter Markt. Not only sis we find the Gold liqueur there was also a dark chocolate variety as well. We bought a whole box to bring back with us, as well as a number of other chocolates including Victor Schmidt Austrian Mozart Balls, a delicious chocolate and marzipan combination.
With another afternoon to spare we visited the Salzburg Residence which previously housed Salzburg’s ruling prince-archbishops. We visited the reception rooms and living quarters, as well as the Gallery. It is as ornate as any of the palaces in Austria, resplendent with furnishings and paintings. After that, the visit to Mozart’s birthplace was something of an anticlimax.
But, what we were in Salzburg for, the Sound of Music tour, and the places we visited:
The Mirabelle gardens, where Maria sang Do Re Mi in front of the gates to the gardens. We spent some time here before and after the tour, and also has a look inside the Mirabelle Palace, which is not open to the public as it is the city administrative offices.
Leopoldskron Palace where the boating scene was filmed as well as exteriors. They were not allowed to film inside the place and were only allowed to use the exterior. An interesting tidbit of information, one of the children nearly drowned.
Heilbrunn palace is now home to the gazebo where Rolf and Leisl sang their song, ‘16 going on 17’. The interesting part of this was the fact the Gazebo used to film the scene was much larger than the actual Gazebo on display.
The walkway from the fortress back to the old city passes Nonnberg Abbey where Maria was a novice, and where the opening scenes were filmed. A number of scenes were filmed here, including the song ‘Maria’ in the courtyard. The tour only showed the exterior of the Abbey.
Salzburg lake district where panorama and picnic scenes were filmed. Even on the dullest of days, during which throughout our tour in continually rained, the scenery was still magnificent.
Mondsee church, where the wedding scenes were filmed. It was surprising just how small the church really is. It was also a stop to have afternoon tea or some ‘famous’ apple strudel.
Needless to say, we watched Sound of Music straight after the tour and managed to pick out all of the places we had been to. The only downside to the tour, singing along to the songs. I’m sorry, but I do not sing, and some of those that were, well, I say no more.
What happens when the planets line up, and everything goes wrong.
Howard calls at Agatha’s residence for an early morning meeting only to find that she has finally succumbed to her illness. He is completely shattered and it will take time to gather himself and work out what to do.
There are people to notify. Firstly Adria. Secondly, the authorities. Thirdly, those on a list they had created for just such an eventuality, though her incapacity was not expected to be death.
Fourthly, her parents, but that was not the most expedient. Just before he called her father he sent a message to Monte, telling him to find Michael, the man she had never divorced, as an absolute priority.
He was hoping her faith in Michael would come to fruition. For the future of her charity, and for the future of their children. And that was the last of his priorities, informing the children, a job he wished he could pass to someone else.
How will those at her charitable organisation react?
On this occasion, we drove from Florence to Innsbruck, a journey of about 500 kilometers and via the E45, a trip that would take us about five and a half hours.
We drove conservatively, stopped once for lunch and took about seven hours, arriving in Innsbruck late in the afternoon
The main reason for this stay was to go to Swarovski in Wattens for the second time, to see if anything had changed, and to buy some pieces. We were still members of the club, and looking forward to a visit to the exclusive lounge and some Austrian champagne.
Sadly, there were no new surprises waiting, and we came away a little disappointed.
We were staying at the Innsbruck Hilton, where we stayed the last time, and it only a short walk to the old town.
From the highest level of the hotel, it is possible to get a look at the mountains that surround the city. This view is in the direction we had driven earlier, from Florence.
The change in the weather was noticeable the moment we entered the mountain ranges.
This view looks towards the old town and overlooks a public square.
This view shows some signs of the cold, but in summer, I doubted we were going to see any snow.
We have been here in winter, and it is quite cold, and there is a lot of snow. The ski resorts are not very far away, and the airport is on the way to Salzburg.
There is a host of restaurants in the old town, and we tried a few during our stay. The food, beer, and service were excellent.
On a previous visit, we did get Swiss Army Knives, literally, from a small store called Victorinox.
