BICENTENNIAL PARK, SYDNEY — Chestnut Teal and Black-winged Stilts rested in the shallow pool. A White-faced Heron had dropped in and then disappeared up onto the wooded slope between the water and the road.

Tiny movement low in a shrub caught my eye. The bird moved rapidly — flash of blue — a fairywren! Oh stay still! And there he was, long tail cocked, hooded with black, decorated with patches of deep and brilliant blue. Then he sang, a high, tinkling jumble of notes. Then he was gone, flitting across the water into another shrub.

I left the pond and found a friendly park employee who gave me a ride out to a blind — a “hide” to the Aussies. She left me with a map and a remark that the often-present pelicans were gone. Great. The hide was spacious and looked out over a large marshy pond. Ducks sprinkled the surface of the water. Many were Chestnut Teal; some were much paler.

Then Mega-Camera arrived. He wore tight biking shorts, and his head was shaved. In short, he did not look like the sort of person who would photograph fairywrens. But I guess he was. Click-click-click-click. I bet the shots were gorgeous; his camera certainly was.

Yes, fairywrens were there too. I pulled out my field guide and learned that they were Superb Fairywrens — an aptly grand name for such spectacular little birds. Several pairs foraged actively in the low vegetation just outside the hide, and I even saw a female singing.

When not looking at fairywrens, I studied the ducks. I tried to turn the pale ones into Gray Teals, but I wished someone could help me out. Maybe they were just female Chestnut Teals. Aside from a few coots, no other waterbirds seemed to be in the area, so I left Mega-Camera to his work and went on my way.

I found a flock of European Goldfinches, which were a surprise. Sure enough, they are yet another species introduced into Australia. I got quick looks at a yellowish honeyeater with a white blaze behind its face. It was built like the Yellow-tinted Honeyeaters I’d seen in Port Moresby, and I learned that night its name was White-plumed Honeyeater.

Quick-moving little birds in a yellow-flowering shrub turned out to be Silver-eyes. Their bright white eyerings and gray backs contrasted with yellow heads and wings. I saw some small yellow birds too and should have pulled out my field guide immediately. I kept walking instead and was later unable to decide whether they were Weebills or Yellow Thornbills. Just stop and check the field guide!

I looked up just in time to see a large waterbird fly over. Was that a Darter? Argh! Come back here! But it didn’t.

The road followed the marshy pond, and I finally got good enough looks at some ducks to call them Gray Teal. I saw some side by side with much darker female Chestnut Teal, and I could not doubt their cold, pale faces.

A saltwater channel ran along the other side of the road. I peered through the trees at an old shipwreck sprouting shrubs and hosting a gathering of Silver Gulls. A cormorant on a post caught my eye. It was white-fronted but much larger than the Little Pied Cormorants I’d seen yesterday. Sure enough, the bill was long and gray. Pied Cormorant. Score.

I climbed an observation deck that overlooked a billabong. I’d always wanted to see a billabong — I guess. The west glowed beautiful colors, and I knew I was nearly out of daylight. Pied Currawongs flew back and forth in the treetops. By now I’ve learned their loud call, which at first I thought must belong to a friarbird. A pair of grebes floated between plants in the water below. They wore winter drabs, and I couldn’t decide whether they were Australasian or Hoary-headed grebes.

As daylight faded, I tried to hurry, but I stopped briefly to look at the Red Wattlebirds and Australian Ravens. Then it was back to Olympic Park where I could catch a train back downtown. I hoped.

SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA — Technical difficulties and extremely limited connectivity have prevented me from posting at all during my travels. I’ve probably lost the 3.5 readers that I did have.

Rest assured that I’m still birding and will begin posting updates again as soon as possible.

I racked up dozens of lifers in Papua New Guinea, I’m doing quite well in Australia, and I have high hopes for Vanuatu.

SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA — This morning, everyone else boarded a plane for Los Angeles and left me alone at the airport. I had a little bit of trouble getting a ride back to my hotel, but I made it downtown eventually.

Immediately after getting settled in my new room, I headed for the Borders bookstore I saw last night with Mark, Emily, and Anna. I found a compact field guide with beautiful illustrations: Simpson and Day’s “Field Guide to the Birds of Australia.”

Much as I wanted to get right out and bird, I decided to grab some lunch and spend time looking through the guide, familiarizing myself with Australian avifauna. Surely that could be accomplished in 15 minutes or so. I found a bench in Hyde Park. Rock Pigeons swirled around occasionally, and a rainbow wreathed the feet of the magnificent bronze atop a fountain.

Then a white ibis sidled toward me. Its head was naked and black, and its neck sported stringy white plumes. It came quite close, and we eyed one another, each unsure of the other’s intentions. It strutted away, and I noticed some red iridescence on the back of its head.

My whirlwind tour through the guide left me dazed and confused, but I stuffed it into my backpack and headed north, in the general direction of the botanic gardens. Evidently the grayish, ground-feeding birds I saw yesterday were not a type of myna but a miner — a honeyeater. I’d have to find some again and look closer.

As I walked, I encountered a chunky, slow-moving bird on the ground, patterned intricately with black and white. Because it was near the women’s restroom, I decided not to stop and stare with my binoculars. I kept moving and found a place to sit down. I pulled out my guide — aha, a Magpie-lark. Then I looked up and saw another a short distance away. The species is dimorphic, with slightly different head patterns between males and females. I determined that this second bird was a male.

Then I found a currawong perched low in a small tree — it was huge. From my study, I knew what to look for. Hooked bill — check. White rump — check. A Pied Currawong, and what a fun name.

People were everywhere, and I tried to keep a low profile, looking neither like a terrorist, nor a voyeur, nor a nut.

The miners proved abundant and easy to observe. They had smudgy black heads and yellow skin around their eyes. They were noisy and rarely alone, seeming equally at home on the ground or in the trees. Their gray rumps and light tail tips convinced me of their identification if range and habitat were not enough.

I saw a pied, crow-sized bird on the ground. Even its bill was black and white. Unfortunately, it was wandering around near a couple working hard on their biology lessons. I had to keep walking. A consultation with Simpson and Day told me I’d just seen and Australian Magpie, which is a butcherbird, not a corvid.

If Wuvulu’s birds all dressed in black, Sydney’s birds like black AND white. In addition to the Magpie-larks, currawongs, and magpies, I saw a Little Pied Cormorant diving for fish. And there were the Australian Ravens with their white irises and wailing cries and the striking white cockatoos with black bills and eyes. The cockatoos’ screeching was horrific.

As I approached the opera house, I came across a pond teeming with birds. There at last I felt free to use my binoculars. Everyone else was looking at birds too. Blackish moorhens with bright white rear ends chased each other, uttering shrill, high-pitched calls. Little Black Cormorants rested in the palms, sporting silvery spots on their backs. Ibises nested in the trees, and their chicks peeped incessantly while the adults grunted and groaned.

Two Eurasian Coots swam by, all black with bright white bills and forehead shields. Rainbow Lorikeets flew overhead occasionally, screeching and flashing red.

Eventually I wandered on, finally coming across a bird I’d gotten a glimpse of yesterday and hoped to see again. It was a Masked Lapwing — a very large shorebird with strange flaps of yellow skin growing on its face. Spectacular. And then, very near the opera house by now, I happened across another bird feeding on the grass. It looked like a small goose with a brown head and dark spots diffused across its light breast. His mate, much paler and plainer, came from behind me to join him. Australian Wood Ducks.

Time for supper.