#fulpmes

[schmalspurbahnlexikon]

#stubaitalbahn in #fulpmes

[breathtakingdestinations]

Fulpmes - Austria (by barnyz) 

[debrink]

Hotel Stubai

Fulpmes • Tyrol

~ Anton Reckziegel (Czech 1865-1936), circa 1908

[heliaofbuda]

Alpine flowers

[beyondsomewhere]

Fulpmes, Austria by barnyz Via Flickr: Fulpmes church interior. The small size of the exterior makes the splendid extravagance of the interior a nice surprise. Austria

[travel-in-pictures]

Fulpmes, Tyrol, Austria

Capture through the valley of stubai, on that maximum impressive mountainscape. First try with such a misty weather, but this is nature at its best.Hope you enjoy it.

by Alohalars 

Source | Google Maps

[mwernerphoto]

The Valley, from the series Hohe Berge © Michael Werner #fineartphotography #landscapephotography #dslr #canon #collecting #austria #austrialove #visittirol #visitaustria #tirol #tiroltourismus #madeintirol #madeinaustria #hikingadventures #hiking #mountains #valley #stubaital #innsbruck #nordkette #fulpmes #iloveaustria #ilovetirol #hoheberge #tyrol #visittyrol (at Innsbruck, Austria)

[aquayurufuwatraveler]

2006.8.9 オーストリア インスブルック～フルプメス

シュトゥーバイタール 路面電車で山の旅

5,8枚目に写っている線路はルート上の線路(豪快に曲がる)

[trialround]

[PART I, PART II]

Philipp Aschenwald/Gregor Schlierenzauer

Willingen 2020

“This is all hypothetical.”

“About that date,”  Gregor says, and he is probably continuing some conversation we had earlier, and as we just came back from the team meeting and haven’t talked since, his words make me panic. Did I miss something again? I’m pretty sure there wasn’t any talk about any dates in the meeting? Right? Or was there? Michael has reminded me countless of times not to nod off during the team meetings. He says they are important. I think they are mostly boring and waste of time, and half of the time I’m not really listening, but maybe I should have this time.

“What date? Did we talk about a date in the meeting? I wasn’t listening.” I don’t know why I am so readily confessing that to Gregor. He doesn’t need to know I sleep during every team meeting. It’s very unprofessional, and Gregor hates everything that is unprofessional.

I don’t want him to hate me.

“Not a date,” Gregor huffs. “The date. Our date.”

“Our date?” I raise my head to look at him. He is lounging on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I’m sitting on the floor next to my suitcase. I’ve lost one of my jumping gloves again, and I’ve been trying to sneakily look for it for the past five minutes without Gregor noticing. I definitely can’t lose anything anymore in front of him. Things… escalated more than enough already with that phone charger.

“You know. The one we talked about – two weeks ago,” Gregor sounds annoyed, and I almost want to continue to play dumb to rile him even more. It could be a fun game, but I don’t want to keep playing forever. I need this to be real.

“Right,” I nod slowly. “The date you still haven’t asked me out on.”

“There would need to be rules,” Gregor continues, ignoring my words.

“There could be rules, if you’d actually ask me out first.”

“This is all hypothetical,” he snaps at me. I look at him. He has sat up on the bed. He sounds annoyed. He even looks annoyed, but his fingers keep tapping against his thigh, like he’s on edge, afraid of falling, and I realize something, another tiny piece of information about him: he is nervous. This date, our date, it’s hypothetical, because he needs to make the rules before he can let himself fall.

“Oh, of course then,” I nod, watching as his fingers slow down, then go still all together. “Hypothetically, where would this date take place?”

“In Fulpmes,” Gregor says immediately.

“I think there are better restaurants in Innsbruck.”

“No Innsbruck.” He sounds annoyed again.

“Okay.”

“Also no restaurants.”

“Fine then. What would we do on this hypothetical date?”

“I don’t know.” He doesn’t seem happy about admitting that so I try a different approach.

“What do you like to do on your free time?”

“Photograph,” Gregor says immediately.

“Well, I’m not much of a model,” I laugh, expecting him to laugh as well, but he doesn’t. He just looks at me.

“I think you’d be great,” he says, sounding serious.

“Right,” I look away, because I’m not sure how to react on the compliment he just gave me. “So. No Innsbruck, no restaurants. What other rules you need?”

He starts listing: no crowded places, no PDA in public. Basically he needs us to be as private as possible, not a secret though, no lying, he emphasizes, and it seems to be important for him. It all sounds very reasonable so I nod along.

“That’s cool. When this hypothetical date would be then?”

“After Kulm.” He gets up from the bed like the conversation is over. I stand up too, not quite ready to let him go just yet. Not when this is finally starting to be real, not when he’s finally talking to me, finally showing that he cares, wants, and is willing to make an effort.

“Why not next week?”

He looks at me like I’m crazy.

“Never before ski flying,” he sounds absolutely horrified, and I would laugh, but he seems to be completely serious. Right then. Maybe I should’ve guessed. He takes jumping very seriously, but ski flying is on a whole other level.

“Right then. After Kulm. Tuesday cool for you?” I try to keep my voice light, although every part of me is screaming inside. It’s getting real, and it feels like a dream.

“Fine,” he shrugs and takes a few steps towards me. Maybe he wants to leave the room, maybe go to the bathroom, and maybe he expects me to move out of his way. I stay where I am. He takes another step, and yet another when I still don’t move. And then we are suddenly close, very close, and I have to look up at him, because he’s a tiny bit taller than me, and that tiny bit counts when we are standing so close.

“Great,” I say, grinning up at him, and he stares at me. Maybe his eyes wander to my lips, and maybe he wants to lean in and kiss me. Maybe I do too, but neither of us moves. It’s not just his game anymore, it’s both of us playing now. “Is this still hypothetical?” I ask.

“No.”

“Cool,” I say. “Then ask me.”

“What?”

“Ask me out,” I say.

He knows I’m going to say yes, he has to, and I desperately want to touch him, pull him closer to me. I want to reassure him, but I also need him to realize, that while we can act like this is a game between us, it’s really not. I want it to be real, I don’t want to play. I can tease him, play along for a minute or two, but at the end of the day, it’s real, and I need it to be real for him too.

“Fine,” he huffs, trying to sound annoyed, but his voice wavers the tiniest bit. “Will you go out with me?”

I smile, because it’s not a game, it’s real, and I’m winning.

“Yes.”

“Great,” he says, leaning closer, and I need that kiss. I need to touch him, to feel his body against me, and he’s right there, but then he moves me out of his way, hands on my hips, a brief touch that is gone too quickly, and heads to the bathroom. He stops at the bathroom door and looks at me. “Your other glove is in your ski bag.”

“What?” Hands on my hips, I miss the touch that was too brief, the kiss that never happened, and I blink at him, when he grins at me.

“Your glove. That’s what you were looking for earlier, right. Look, Philipp, you really should take better care of your stuff.” He smiles victoriously, then disappears to the bathroom.

Fuck.

He always has to have the last word, and maybe I’m not winning after all. Maybe there’s no way to win this. He is just too good.

[germanpostwarmodern]

School (1978) in Fulpmes, Austria, by Heinz & Mathoi & Streli

[impressivepress]

Bloodstained ice axe used to kill Trotsky emerges after decades in the shadows

On the evening of 20 August 1940, a man known as Frank Jacson called at a large house in the suburbs of Mexico City, and asked to see the ‘Old Man’ – as everyone called its celebrated resident, Leon Trotsky.

A few minutes later, the tip of the axe was buried more than two inches into Trotsky’s skull, becoming arguably the world’s most infamous murder weapon.

The axe was fleetingly displayed at a police press conference, but then disappeared for more than six decades.

Next year, however, the bloodstained relic will go on public display at Washington’s International Spy Museum, which will reopen in a new building to accommodate thousands of other artefacts that have emerged from the shadows.

The story of the ice axe is a convoluted one, befitting the extraordinary and macabre story of the Trotsky assassination. After the 1940 press conference, it was stored in a Mexico City evidence room for several years until it was checked out by a secret police officer, Alfredo Salas, who argued he wanted to preserve it for posterity. He passed it on his daughter, Ana Alicia, who kept it under her bed for 40 years until deciding to put it up for sale in 2005.

Trotsky’s grandson, Esteban Volkov, offered to give blood for a DNA test – but only on condition that Salas donated the weapon to the museum at Trotsky’s house, preserved intact from the time of the murder. Salas rejected the deal.

“I am looking for some financial benefit,” she told the Guardian at the time. “I think something as historically important at this should be worth something, no?”

The weapon was eventually bought by a US private collector, Keith Melton, a prolific author of books on the history of espionage, and a founding board member of the International Spy Museum. For the avid collector, who lives in Boca Raton, Florida, the ice axe had become something of an obsession.

“It was a search that took me 40 years, and up lots of blind allies and lots of misinformation,” Melton said. He doggedly tracked down every rumour, including one claiming the Mexican president was using it as a paperweight, until Salas emerged.

Melton would not disclose what he paid Salas for the axe. Contacted on Wednesday, Salas denied any knowledge of the sale. Trotsky’s grandson, Volkov, said he was unconcerned about the axe’s fate.

“Frankly, we are not interested in this,” he told the Guardian. “I never did the DNA test. I was not going to accept being part of a business deal for that woman.”

“It has no significance,” Volkov said. “It could have been a knife or a pistol. It doesn’t have any significance that it was a pick. And it was clumsily done, too.

“Who knows if it is the real axe?” he added.

Melton said he had authenticated the artefact beyond doubt and by several methods. There is a paper trail confirming that it passed into Salas’ possession. It bears the stamp of the Austrian manufacturer, Werkgen Fulpmes, a detail that was not made public; it is of the same dimensions as those recorded in the police report and it still bears the rust mark left by assassin’s bloody fingerprint, identical to the one in the photograph from the 1940 press conference.

Melton also believes he has also solved one of the enduring mysteries about Trotsky’s murder. Why, if the killer had an automatic pistol and a 13in dagger, did he resort to the ice axe?

Two sons of the 1917 Russian revolution, Trotsky and Joseph Stalin, were locked in rivalry that – by the nature of the two men – could only end in death.

Stalin approved a final plan for Trotsky’s assassination in 1939. It comprised two parallel plots: the first was a frontal assault, led by David Alfaro Siqueiros, the Mexican muralist who was also an agent for Stalin’s secret police, the NKVD.

On 24 May 1940 Siqueiros and a team of hitmen, dressed as policemen and soldiers, raked Trotsky’s house with more than 200 bullets, but the intended victim and his wife Natalia survived.

It seemed to be a miraculous escape, but proved to be only a short reprieve. A back-up assassination plot was already in motion.

Two years earlier, at the congress of Trotsky’s Fourth International in Paris, a lonely young New Yorker and ardent Trotskyite, Sylvia Ageloff, was introduced to a dashing 25-year-old called Jacques Mornard, supposedly the son of a Belgian diplomat.

His real name was Ramón Mercader, a Spanish communist whose mother, a loyal Stalinist, had put him up to the task of killing Trotsky.

Ageloff was persuaded to move to Mexico City to work for the Trotsky family. Mercader told her that to move with her, he would have to adopt a false identity to avoid being pursued for military service. He would go under the name of Frank Jacson (the NKVD forgers misspelled Jackson on his passport).

Ageloff accepted the explanation and the Trotsky entourage grew accustomed to see him drive her to the compound every morning.

On August 20 1940, Mercader was making his 10th visit to the house.

He told the guards he was planning to publish an article in a magazine and wanted Trotsky to look at the draft. Since the May attack, however, a new level of security had been introduced. There was a second door with a lock that was controlled from a guard tower. If Mercader was going to escape after killing Trotsky, the guards in the tower would have to let him out.

“The only chance he had was to kill him silently and then exit as a guest before they discovered the body,” Melton said.

A pistol would clearly not work in that case, and a dagger could not be guaranteed to kill Trotsky outright. By previous experience, the NKVD recommended blunt force to the back of the head to guarantee a completely silent death; to do the job Mercader stole the ice axe from his landlord’s son.

The axe is now among 5,000 artefacts that Melton is pledging to the International Spy Museum from his collection, which also includes a British one-man submarine used in second world war raids, and one of the plates used by the Nazis to forge perfect pound notes.

According to Melton, none of his treasures has quite the eerie presence of the ice axe. After letting Mercader into his study, Trotsky sat down to read his article, and the assassin attacked.

Trotsky let out a long scream and fought with his assailant until the guards arrived.

“I still remember looking through the open door and seeing my grandfather lying on the floor with his head bathed in blood and hearing him tell somebody to ‘keep the boy away, he shouldn’t see this’,” Volkov recalled on Wednesday. “I always thought that was a sign of his humanity. Even in a moment like that he was worried about me.”

Trotsky died of his wounds a little over 24 hours later in hospital. Mercader was put on trial and imprisoned for nearly 20 years.

During his time in jail, his Soviet handlers ensured he was as comfortable as possible, sending money each week and even arranging a girlfriend for him: a Mexican starlet called Roquella, who became his wife and accompanied him to Moscow after his release.

Mercader died of cancer in Cuba in 1978, with Roquella by his side. His last words are said to have been: “I hear it always. I hear the scream. I know he’s waiting for me on the other side.”

~

by Julian Borger (Washington), and Jo Tuckman (Mexico City) · 13 Sep 2017.

[hotelalpenstolz-blog]

Das Hotel Alpenstolz im Stubaital ist ein familiär geführtes Hotel in Mieders und befindet sich unweit von Innsbruck. Wir freuen uns auf Sie!

Das familiär geführte Hotel Alpenstolz in Mieders im Stubaital liegt nicht weit entfernt von Innsbruck. Es ist mit viel Holz ausgestaltet und eignet sich als 3-Sterne Hotel ideal für Wintersportler, Familien mit Kindern, Wanderern und vielen anderen Menschen, die sich dort erholen möchten. Es ist ein sehr schönes Hotel im Stubaital und liegt direkt in der Ortschaft Mieders. Neben einem Besuch im Heimatmuseum in Fulpmes empfiehlt sich darüber hinaus auch eine Fahrt mit der Bergbahn.

https://www.alpenstolz.at/

[ntmph2272]

2018/1/26 Fulpmes im Stubaital, Tirol

[theframelines]

Stubaital, in 5K, DxO, B&W by karlhilber

[likegram]

Stubaital, in 5K, DxO, B&W by @karlhilber

[aloulou-travel]

Stubaital, in 5K, DxO, B&W by karlhilber