An old stone wall is cinched around Kapuzinerberg like a belt. The hilly ridge is one of three that run through the city of Salzburg, chopping it up into sections. The other two are Mönchsberg and Festungsberg. Poor Rainberg could be considered the fourth, but its dwarfish size and location on the outskirts somewhat exclude it.
            A Scandinavian runs my favorite coffee shop in town. Sexy in an older man with big hands kind of way, he flirts with me when a student is working with him in the café. I turn into a stranger when his husband joins him behind the counter. It’s an unattractive quirk, which confirms the impropriety of his intentions. I like him nonetheless.
            Had I been a young Danish man in the 1970s, I could have snagged his eye outside a discotheque. Beaten this other man to the punch. We’d move to Vienna at a time when buying an apartment in the seventh district didn’t cost an arm and a leg. I’d cook Rindergulasch mit Sauerrahm, and we’d watch the terror of the Autumn of ‘77 unfold every night on the news. We’d fear for the future of our neighbor West Germany as the RAF kidnaps Hanns Martin Schleyer. We’d argue about the implications of PFLP’s hijacking of Lufthansa Flight 181. When they later make a film about the events in 2008, we’ll go to the cinema, point at the screen, and say: I remember that.
            From my seat at the window, I look upon Kapuzinerberg and its fortifications left over from the Thirty Years’ War. The wall with its little towers helped the city earn its status as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Not like Salzburg needed much help. The fortress on the hill and churches pulled most of the weight. What luck that the British and Americans had better places to bomb during the war.
            In the Linzergasse, an archway will corral you up a stairway that leads to the monastery. As you ascend, the stations of the cross seek to inspire your sinful soul to solemn contemplation. For me, it’ll take more than fourteen little paintings of Jesus falling three times, getting his sweaty face wiped by Veronica, having his clothes torn off, being nailed to some planks. At the top, you can walk on a path beside the wall. The one from the Thirty Years’ War.
            But first, I suggest you take a look at Salzburg from the little garden next to the monastery where the tourists line up to take snapshots on their phones. We’ll push an Italian family out of the way for a better view. You don’t have to lie. The sight is impressive, but it’s true. The city loses some of its charm when you get to see the big picture. Most things do. The fairytale castle and Baroque buildings of the Old Town are only half the story. The smokestacks, the power plant, and grungy residential districts aren’t on any of the postcards.