Ah, another beautiful sunny Unterfränkischer day. There can't be many more of these left in old Mother Nature's gunnysack. But even as I watch the kiddies flying their plastic kites and old couples hobbling, hand-in-hand down leafy ways, my mind drifts to a much colder place, an magical place. In this place, the ground buckles and bends skywards, and in the buckles belt out the trombone-like voices of thick hairy-men, many of whom sport impressive suspenders. I speak, of course, of the Austrian Alps. Two Tuesdays ago, I got a surprise invitation from my coworkers. I was to come with them to Austria, and sleep in a hut, and we would go hiking. "But Robert, you moron," you say, "You can't go to the Alps, you don't even have hiking boots or a water-resistant jacket!" You
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