World’s Fair, Chicago, 1932. Four-years-old, I saw my first penguins.
Admiral Byrd’s Antarctic explorers had brought the birds—penguins jump, more than fly—to the fair grounds erected on the edge of Lake Michigan. The penguin house was cooled. Home air-conditioning was also arriving.
Magellan Strait, Patagonia, 2009. Eighty-two–years-old was the last time I saw penguins.
In lower South America, the penguins are smaller and colored differently from Emperor penguins in even lower Antartica. I know first hand. One Magellan penguin waddled only three feet past me on its way to join others headed for the beach and a swim.
Guides warned don’t touch the penguins. Human touching would leave a scent. Your odor would ostracize that penguin from the other penguins who had left their cave-like dwellings to greet we tourists.
There’s probably a modern-day equivalent warning for we pandemic-exposed. Vaccine, mask, quarantine come to mind.
