Crackle but don't pop

At school the Year 10s have been doing food, and though they're learning French, we came across the sinful Schwarzwalderkirschtorte in the textbook today, which was unkind as it was the last lesson of the day and they were hungry. C'est typiquement allemand, they were meant to say, but they were drooling too much to get the words out.

Comparatively stricken in years though I am, I had the same reaction to seeing this cake in the cafe at the castle in Cochem - though I was able to resist buying a piece. Having travelled a lot in Australia and also in the US recently, I have to say I was struck by the relative absence of really fat people in Germany. Stout Fraus, certainly, but none of that over-the-top (literally) wobbliness that is so much more common elsewhere. And that's despite all that Schlagsahne, and the Kartoffeln, and the Bier.

And, as a crunchy snack that promises A Hearty Enjoyment, how about a slab of pork crackling? Mmmm, das ist lecker! (I do like the token gesture towards healthy eating represented by that shred of lettuce leaf.)

High-five genes!

Photo by Steven McNicholl published in the NZ Herald of their category winners at Friday night's Canon Media Awards including, as recipient of the Student Journalism Award, none other than the Firstborn. What a proud moment. (FB pretty thrilled too.)

Dough nut*

Teaching German today, and how satisfying was it to be able to begin the class with "Letzte Woche war ich in Deutschland! Ich war auf einem Schiff auf dem Rhein" - especially since the class had just got to the dative case. Teachers love that sort of thing. (So do skites.)

I returned to the Head of Languages the route map she had lent me of the Rhine from Mainz to Cologne, from which I discovered, rather belatedly, that the boat had, in the night, slipped past Bonn, which was rather a shame; and also Linz. Linz, I pondered, and then remembered: The Jackdaw of Linz. More pondering, during which I struggled to remember any details of the Brothers Grimm tale of that name - something along the lines of The Musicians of Bremen, I thought - before finally having to resort to Google. And of course it's not a fable at all: it's the title of a book about Hitler's art thefts, and his ambition to make Linz (another Linz, his home town in Austria) into the art capital of Europe. I hate it when that happens. Especially when I'm still jet-lagged with a head full of fluff.

*That's a misplaced possessive apostrophe, by the way: they don't have them in German. How ironic that it's been used correctly, and yet it's still wrong. Apostrophes, eh? They just can't win.

Rise Up Christchurch*

It's been three months now since the Christchurch earthquake. The figures are appalling: $15 billion in losses and costs, making it proportionally twice as costly as Japan's quake and tsunami. In the central city there are 900 buildings to be demolished; in the suburbs, over 200,000 badly damaged homes. There are 300 km of broken sewers. And then there are the 185 people who died, and those who've had limbs amputated and other serious injuries.

There was a telethon on TV, the usual thing with celebrities doing silly things and urging viewers to donate, which they did; and there were also heartening accounts of survival, endurance and community spirit. Everyone has ideas about how to rebuild the city, and right now the main feeling is for low-rise, naturally enough with memories of the CTV and PGG buildings so fresh. It looks as though there's going to be some spirited debate about the Cathedral and the other signature buildings that everyone knew and loved: rebuild as they were, or replace?

There seems to be an idea that to put them back as they were would be architecturally dishonest and unimaginative, especially as they were anyway only mock-Gothic, built in the second half of the 19th century; and that the result would be fake. But that's what they did in Germany, when they lost so much of so many cities. Most of what I was delighted by and took photos of last week was reproduction, rebuilt in the 1950s and later to look medieval, reconstructions of buildings that had been destroyed. Evidently much of those half-timbered frontages with their decorated plaster and slate roofs are literally facades, with modern buildings behind. Is that dishonest?

There are plenty of new buildings, towers of glass and concrete, that architects presumably took pride in designing - but they aren't what I wanted to record in photographs; and they aren't what would have given the citizens comfort and reassurance after they had lost so much during the war. I do so hope that the people who rebuild Christchurch give at least equal weight to emotion, as to intellect.

* I'm afraid I don't know who to credit for this amazing photo taken from the Port Hills of the city at the moment of the 22 February earthquake, when Christchurch history split instantly into Before and After.

Nasssty

No market for this sort of thing in New Zealand - shows you how despised possums are there, since rats, mice and rabbits are well-represented in toyshops.

How bored I am!

My flight has been delayed a further half hour. I realise this is nothing like Heathrow in the snow, or Schipol after the volcano, but it's pretty tedious. What I'm really missing now is natural light. The nearest I can get is the tinted glass in the public areas, where all the seats are taken. The Qantas lounge, while comfortable, is entirely windowless.

Having stood so recently, though, in Anne Frank's house, where she and her family lived quiet and dim for more than two years, the last thing I'm doing here is complaining. Honest.

Broken promises

Here I am at Melbourne airport. Again. For 6 extra hours, sigh.

The journey was going so swimmingly (which is to say, not - literally, that is) after setting off to the airport in Amsterdam at 3pm. To London, short wait, good sleep on the way to Singapore, even shorter wait - but then after boarding we sat at the gate for ages while, wait for it, the galley fridges were repaired. Late leaving means late arriving, so we missed the connection that would have got me home to Auckland by lunchtime.

So now I have 6 hours to kill at my least-favourite airport before arriving home to drive across the city in rush-hour. But I am at least in the Business lounge, showered and refreshed and diverted by the novelty of this pancake machine which after some promising humming and flashing of lights, spits out two tiny pikelets that are nothing like the generously-sized hotcakes in the photo. Something else that doesn't deliver.

No, really, where am I? And when?

It's very confusing to arrive somewhere after flying for over 12 hours, eating, sleeping, watching movies and TV, and carefully setting your watch as advised to 5 o'clock and then suddenly realising you have absolutely no idea whether that's am or pm.

Turns out it's pm. So that's another night flight ahead of me, yet here I am ready for a new day, sigh. That was thanks to the very comfortable Business class on a lovely new A-380. Nice one, Qantas.

Next stop Melbourne, sigh - but least I won't be getting caught up in that horrendous baggage claim hall scrum.