This year, next year

Anzac Day, and I was at Devonport again for the parade and service. The RSA veterans got their usual warm applause as they marched along Victoria Road to the war memorial, all smartly turned out and their medals glinting in the sunshine. This year they were joined by Con Thode, a youthful-looking 103 year-old who is the only New Zealander to have commanded a British submarine, which sent an impressed murmur through the crowd when it was announced at the start of the service.

There were hymns, readings by marvellously assured young children, prayers, the Ode in Maori as well as English this time, a particularly military speech this year, wreath-laying by groups both obvious and obscure, and again the singing of the Australian anthem as well as ours, which is a nice touch even though theirs grates slightly, being somewhat boastful (golden soil, nature's gifts, beauty rich and rare...) and enviably livelier than our dirge.

The Last Post was especially well done this year, the lingering notes perfectly sounded; and I looked around at the crowd, from littlies in shorts and jandals to old people in blazers and sensible shoes, all colourful in the bright autumn sunshine, and thought how different next Anzac Day will be, when I'm standing in the cold pre-dawn dark of a Turkish spring on the Gallipoli peninsula for the 100th anniversary of the battle that started it all.

Choosing Chicago

Here I am (centre), about to shake the hand of the Mayor of Chicago, the oddly-named Rahm Emanuel, a professional charmer (that's my excuse for my possum-in-the-headlights impression) and enthusiastic proponent of tourism to his city. We met - if you can call it that - at the IPW media brunch in the Observatory at the top of the Hancock building with its extensive views over the city and the lake. There was also a bird's eye view of a greeting written in the sand of the beach 94 storeys below, which was just one of the many, many thoughtful touches that made us all feel that Chicago was really pleased to have us there.

I'm really looking forward to returning to the city in October, and having a proper look at it. I'm going to do the architectural cruise that others told me they enjoyed so much; I'm going to ride the El out to a couple of the score or so of distinctive neighbourhoods; I'm going to have a proper look around the Field Museum in which so far I've only seen Sue the T.Rex and about a thousand birds; I'll look at some art; I'll try the deep-dish pizza and local hot dog, though I don't expect to enjoy either of them; I'll catch some comedy if I can; and I may even venture into a shop or two. And, who knows, if the series goes into play-offs, I may get to see a baseball game at Wrigley Field. Now that would be a proper visit.

Getting the birders in a flap

They're a touchy lot, birders. Look at Aaron here, frothing at the mouth, randomly capitalising, spraying quote-marks, and delivering a classic telling-off, the like of which I haven't been on the receiving end of since I was in the fourth form and involved in a bit of lunch-time out-of-bounds mischief. He's upset because of an - admittedly - inaccurate introduction written by the editor to my story about Stewart Island, which describes the island as "predator-free". It's not, of course, as I make quite clear in a paragraph halfway through: "... cats, rats and possums require constant vigilance".

But let's give Aaron a bit of leeway here - he's a biology teacher, after all, not English (like me) and reading comprehension skills are clearly not his forte. (In a follow-up email, he misses the point again.) He's anxious about the birds and, even if he's somewhat irrational in his belief that the erroneous use of the phrase in question "will mean more birds die", I can sympathise with that. I'm quite fond of birds myself, as regular readers (!) well know, and am happy to have spotted plenty of them in my travels.

I have, though, been effectively black-listed by the NZ Parks and Conservation Foundation, thanks to a frivolous column I wrote long ago for the Herald during the summer silly season:
There is a standard joke in the UK that when you visit New Zealand you have to set your watch back 30 years. That would still put you 100 years ahead of Pamela Wade though, judging from the views expressed in her article in Wednesday's Herald. Ms Wade bemoans the poor quality of the native songbirds, which she compares unfavourably to the "heart-lifting glory" of the exotic species introduced by the "pioneers in the 19th century - people who have since been vilified for their insensitivity to biological purity". When gardeners can augment their beds with the best that other countries have to offer, why, she asks, should we not be able similarly to enhance our parks and gardens with pretty and tuneful birds from around the world? 

What does all this prove? That apparently people who officially care about birds have no sense of humour or irony, and are so hot-headed about their beliefs that they can't actually read properly. It's a bit sad, really. So here's one of my (many, many) nice pictures of birds to make us all feel better:

Spoiled for choice

Phew! So many riches today, in just one small part of one pretty much overlooked state - and no time to do them all justice before I must put out the light. You'll have to call back in here later for the detail; but the day began with sunshine and loons on the lake and a squirrel on the porch. Then there was home-made quiche at 1920s-themed Baker House in Lake Geneva, where the server wore black lacy pantaloons and I wore a feathered hat.

At Madison, Wisconsin's capital, there was the Capitol, and a beautiful Frank Lloyd Wright building beside the lake and an Otis Redding memorial on its roof (his plane crashed into Lake Monona). There was more FLW later, at his own house, but before that we went to The House on the Rock, which will have to have a post on its own because it is INCREDIBLE and ASTONISHING and enormous FUN. Truly.

And finally there were deep-fried, crumbed cheese curds at Captain Bill's back in Middleton, so sinfully delicious it's a relief we don't have them at home; and pie at the Hubbard Avenue Diner, a classic 1950s chrome and red vinyl affair with a great line in pie/pi puns, some of them in Spanish. An excellent day.

Geddit? Spanish for "I have pie"!

No honour amongst fishermen

This is Rich, who was beaming with the double delight of a warm, sunny afternoon and the triumph of having caught two fine brown trout. Or so he claimed, at least. I was impressed, not just with the size of the fish, but the fact that he caught them right in the city, within earshot of traffic and against a background of skyscrapers.

Looking the other way, though, the lake looked like the Pacific Ocean, stretching clear and turquoise all the way to the horizon. Beautiful.

Rich was anxious that people here had treated me well, and was pleased to hear that everyone I'd met had been friendly, helpful and sincerely flattering about New Zealand. "They're lightening up again now it's getting warmer," he said, "after the winter we've had." (On the gates of the marina jetties there are signs forbidding both swimming and ice-skating, which strikes me as pretty unique.)

And then we shook hands and he went back to his fishing, me still impressed with his catch - until I met his mate further along the shore, who told me with great indignation that the bigger fish was his. Fishermen, eh? Untrustworthy the world over.

I have only one eye open

Near help me, autocorrect. PRty. Free boozy, caged dancers, thanks vestige, dancing LPOPCOEM THtsd pulp corn popcorn, sncient danced moves resurrected, lots if fun. ThNk you San Francisco!

Note: Posted on my return to my room, before bed, and un-corrected. But you realised that, of course.

Another theory blown up

This afternoon, duty done at the convention, I escaped to breathe some fresh air and get some Vitamin D and exercise, so I walked from McCormick Place (the flat white building at the top right) all the way to the Willis Tower, which is what you're meant to call the Sears Tower these days, where this photo was taken, and then back to the Hilton, which is that triple brick building catching the sun in the photo. I didn't actually mean to walk all that way, but my dimness continues and I couldn't find a station to take the El, although I was walking right along the line.

Never mind, it was good to be out walking on a sunny afternoon, looking at all the fine buildings - very pretty wooden homes all in a line, super-grand Library, the backdrop of skyscrapers that are starting to become familiar - and at the people. Black kids playing basketball on a street corner, cool dudes skimming past on bikes, fat ladies waddling, beggars offering blessings in the hope of spare change, a friendly young guy promoting Greenpeace.

And then I went up the Tower, 103 floors, tallest in the Western Hemisphere ( ~ ) to have my photo taken standing on the glass ledge with tiny people scuttling along the pavement so very far below. No biggie. What was more disturbing was reading a story board claiming that the atomic age began in 1942 when some scientists at Chicago University set off a chain reaction: "the initial step in building the nuclear bomb".

So, nothing to do with Sir Ernest Rutherford beginning his work towards splitting the atom in the basement of Canterbury University in 1917, then?