I did, in fact, eat a bratwurst while I was there, and looked at lots and lots of faux-Bavarian tchochkes. However, I resisted the siren call of the Nutcracker Museum.
The signing and the reading both went well. The latter was held in a cozy private banquet room at Visconti’s, an Italian restaurant just up the road from A Book For All Seasons. Leavenworth is the kind of small town where everyone knows everyone, and my dinner companions’ story of how they were all related—through business, friendship, marriage, or blood—would have made an interesting novel in its own right. I came home well-fed and happy.