ANZAC Day Parade

Despite Cynthia’s cold — it’s a doozy and she IS a trooper — we get up early-ish and put on some nice-ish clothes because our host, David Williams, will march in the parade and has invited us to the RSL (Returned Service League) club for drinks after the parade. As we wait for some to finish ablutions, Gay pins a rosemary sprig on David G’s shirt. Why? Rosemary grew all over the hillsides of Gallipoli and poppies grew on the fields of the Somme, so Gay is adorned with both.

Carrying the banner for the HMS Wagga — David’s ship —we catch a train to St. James Place and after a brief spell, Gay and Cynthia are able literally to grab a spot on the railings set up along the side of St. Elizabeth Avenue (normally George Street but, as previously alluded to, its totally torn up for a light rail line going down the center).

This ANZAC parade is not like the one for Schwartzkopf et al. who marched down Constitution Avenue in the Gulf War Celebration in 1991 — the last big military parade we remember — and its not even like any parade we have seen in the past 30 years in America. This parade is closest to Obama’s inauguration. People cry openly in the crowds lining the streets. This is a heartfelt occasion. A solemn, joyous parade that celebrates people who served not their own land, but a mother country in distress 10,500 miles away simply out of a sense of loyalty, of kinship, of shared values. As we say, we haven’t seen a parade that moving since Obama’s inauguration. Roughly three hours of contingents and bands cheered on along the route. When a contingent that’s especially spit-and-polished marches by in perfect unison, Gay says, “They’re in good nick.”

The RSL club is like an upscale version of PX in a foreign land: very inexpensive drinks drinks served fast. This club has gambling as well, so we must sign forms and register as temporary guests. David W. And his mates are on the fourth floor and they welcome him and Gay and us with open arms. We chat for a bit and six of us repair to Chinatown, to the Inn of Nine Dragons. Good food and time for all. Gay and Cynthia return home, David W. Returns to the RSL and David G wanders Chinatown in circles for a while, hunting for the Golden Tree (ask if you wanna know).

David G, who suspects he’s coming down with Cynthia’s cold, walks from Chinatown through parts of Hyde park, around St. Mary’s Cathedral, which is plying organ music so loud he can hear it on the street. The museum is free and fabulous; a string quartet plays in the lobby and a fifth woman sings classical arias while I walk around. The art is wonderful: traditional, indigenous, contemporary, confusing, soothing, historical, and fell well signaged (new word).

Somehow, without Cynthia’s iPhone maps or personal direction, David G makes it back to Dulwich Hill (actually Arlington station) where Cynthia is mostly asleep and the rest of us watch Australian League rugby (six tries, pass backwards only, kick when you want, and crash into the opposing team as hard and fast as you can). And go to bed.

Another we-re-at-a-loss-for-the-mot-juste day in Oz.