War. What is it good for?

The last straw was Melbourne's Shrine of Remembrance.

Having seen a large number of memorials to Wars X, Y, Z, P, Q, and TT, and having seen row upon row of white crosses on grassy fields, and having seen innumerable sculpted bronze and stone images of known and unknown warriors, and having seen eternal flames, and having seen incomprehensibly long lists of those lost in the fray, and having read the gory accounts of senseless carnage in the name of king or country or some god or another, and having listened to the Irish song The Green Fields of France, and having seen too many photos of fresh-faced exuberant young men flooding some recruiting office or another, and having seen too many flag-draped coffins, and having listened to the sad last note of Taps too many times, and having met too many badly-damaged vets, and having seen too many video clips of kids climbing out of rubble where a house used to be, and having seen and smelled and lived it, I am sick of the whole war thing.

LEST WE FORGET

Those words are carved in stone at the aforementioned Shrine.

Forget? I wish! 

Fat freakin' chance. New wars and the reminders of old ones just keep coming, and both make me want to puke.

What Mary Had

This country has a lot of appeal, and I could move here except for a couple of things. Well, one main thing: they don't allow outsiders to take up permanent residence unless (a) the outsider has skills they need and has no medical issues their healthcare system will be called on to address, or (2) the outsider forks over more money than I will ever have.

It is a gorgeous country. When we leave here for Australia tomorrow, it will be a sad farewell. The likelihood of passing this way again is small. 

Lamb is a plentiful food here, so I tasted it for the third time in my life. Guess what? I dislike it just as much as the first and second times. The likelihood of me trying it a fourth time equals the likelihood of another trip to New Zealand.

The Senate

Imagine, if you will, the United States Senate voting to abolish itself. Very difficult to picture that, I know.

Some 50 or so years ago the New Zealand "upper house" of Parliament, realizing that they were adding no value to the democratic process, did just that. After the vote, the members gathered to sing Auld Lang Syne and then went home. That was it. With no constitution saying there had to be two houses in Parliament, those guys were able to do what they thought was right, and the citizens have saved some money ever since. 

Problems

Yeah, everyone has 'em.

Right now, I have two. First, I am unable to attach a photo to this Post. A photo that is already on this iPad. I want to demonstrate that I really am in New Zealand, not just holed up in the Motel 6 down in Arnold. 

Second, my pseudophilosophical wit seems to be on the fritz. I called the repairman, but the first available appointment is three months from next Tuesday -- I simply can't wait that long.

I'll just relate a story our Road Scholar group was told by one of our Site Coordinator, a mate named Albert Sword, who educated us a bit on New Zealand history.

It seems that many of the European sailors who first landed here in the 1600s were badly malnourished and suffered from very serious constipation. The settlers asked the indigenous Maori people if they had any enema facilities, as they were afraid some of their men would die. The Maori chief said they never had that problem because they chewed on the fronds of a certain kind of fern. The fronds were offered, the men chewed on them and got immediate relief. The ship's captain wrote in his log, "With fronds like this, who needs enemas?"

Big Bang

Nothing was left alive for miles around after the series of explosions in the middle of the night in June, 1886. It was a sort of Mt. St. Helens deal in the central part of New Zealand's north island. Eventually, the dust settled and craters -- plural -- filled with water.

Although the dust had settled, the steam vents and geysers have not. During a boat cruise on Lake Rotomahana, which formed in the largest crater, we saw a large number of them along the shore. Many more are submerged in the lake, diameter 2 miles and depth in hundreds of feet. Black swans swim lazily around until the boat infringes on their precious primadona personal space; then they fly a hundred meters away and water-ski 10 meters to a soft landing.

The area around the lake is very hilly. Call it mountainous. After the Big Bang, it was a desolate landscape covered in volcanic ash. Now, 128 years later, it is a lush forest, almost jungle, and, if there is a lesson to be learned, that lesson is something about resilience. This is an ugly place turned beautiful.

We are definitely not in Kansas.

Barbra Streisand

People are people. No matter where in the world you go, people are pretty much the same. 

Except they aren't. 

New Zealanders have the standard number of arms and eyes and testicles and whatever, but they are a tad different from Americans. We are finding less graffiti and less litter and more kindness and more cordiality and less baseball knowledge down here.

I have been some places where people are phony-nice to the American tourist, and I see right through that. This isn't that. They are just a bit more .... bloody civilised 'round here. 

Please forgive the obscure reference to Ms. Streisand.

You see? Only a few days here, and I am already saying things like "please" and "thank you." I have not told one bloke to bugger off!

Rules

Somewhere above the Tasman Sea aboard Qantas 145 between Sydney and Auckland: The headphones only worked for the right ear, so I turned the volume up, trying to drown out the engine and wind noises. On the video screen, a  documentary  on (lack of) modern manners sounded interesting, and probably would have been had I been able to understand at least 51% of the words. The background noise, the Aussie accent (these people talk funny!), the half-active headphones, and my age-appropriate hearing loss all conspired to sabotage the experience. After 3 minutes, I ripped the headphones off and tried to asphyxiate myself by wrapping the cord around my neck. A flight attendant sternly reminded me that suicides are not permitted on eastbound flights while the window shades are down. Shit!

Rules. They suck.

Comments

One of my fans has reported an unsuccessful attempt to comment on one of my Musings. Anyone else have that experience? If so, let me know by leaving a comment. Unless, of course, this blog won't let you comment -- in which case you should post a comment.

It's Different Down Under

We have been in Australia for just over an hour, so I don't know all the differences yet -- but I have learned that infants don't get strapped into special seats in cars here. Their mothers carry them around in fur-lined pouches just below their belly-buttons.

Strange place, but the natives seem friendly so far.

Crossing the International Date Line

We just landed in Australia, and the clocks are all screwed up. Time here is allegedly 10:02AM on Tuesday October 14, but that is not possible under international law. Methinks the Y2K team had something to do with this.

L.A.

Qantas 108 is starting to board passengers to Sydney. We will connect with an Air New Zealand flight to Auckland. That will take place in 274 hours, more or less, and we will begin our tour Down Under.

Today I got to visit a little bit with Gary Morse, a dear friend from long ago. He lives in the LA area and is recovering from a nasty mesothelioma surgery and radiation treatments. A sobering reminder of how fortunate I have been, enjoying good health.

I may drink heavily on this flight. Nobody gets arrested for that, do they?

Fun!

It has been 3 hours since "wheels up" leaving STL. Only an hour left on this plane; we land in L.A. and seek luggage, rental car, Sheraton, food, and alcohol -- not necessarily in that order.

The past 180 minutes have been somewhere between miserable and torturous. I could not stay awake, but I couldn't stay asleep. My head won't stay back on the headrest when I sleep. It falls forward and wakes me up. My bladder finally rescued me from the head-bob shuffle, and the woman in 23D barely betrayed her hostility as she unbuckled and stood to let me go drain the snake.

Flight attendants of indiscernible genders and ethnicities just reached Row 23 dispensing drinks. As I considered my Coke-wine decision, the pilot announced "Prepare for landing," which Flight Attendant B quickly followed with (looking straight at me) "Sorry!"

Fun. Everyone told me to have fun. I intend to start any minute now.