Why I Ditched Times Square and Now Celebrate New Years Overseas

T-2 months to New Years......time to plan a trip!

My sophomore year of college, I spent New Year's Eve with a college buddy and a high school best friend - both named Brian.  We went to Times Square. 

It seemed like a good idea at the time.  We planned to get into the City by about 6 pm, grab some food, then walk from Grand Central over to Times Square.  We kept on getting shuffled uptown, though, because streets were closed off and security wasn't letting us through, finally crossing to 7th Ave in the mid-50s.  And there we stood for the next five and a half hours.

Oh, we moved.  The police would occasionally open the metal barriers and the crowd would rush forward.  I had to grab Brian and Brian's coats, so as not to lose them in the stampede.  We could smell the pizza joints that were earning cash hand over fist from the groups who had called in a pepperoni pie order for delivery to the sidewalk.  For us, there were too many people in the way who'd sneaked in plastic flasks to guzzle their potent potables.  We were jealous, until they started complaining about the lack of toilet facilities around ten. By midnight, we were bored, shivering, still eight blocks away, unable to hear the concerts and barely able to see the ball drop.  It was anticlimactic, and we still had a train ride home.

For a while after that, I'd celebrate with small groups at home (pro: cheap champagne), or meet up with friends at a bar (con: inability to hear the television countdown).  For all the hype, I thought it would be more fun.

And then we went to Aruba.

Aruban New Year, complete with fireworks, party hats, and a sarcastic musician who allowed us to buy his least favorite tunes.  The elderly gentleman from Guadalajara on the left is Tiffany's new best friend.  The piano man is on the right.

Suddenly, I was liberated.  Without a boyfriend in tow, there was no expectation to have someone to kiss.  Dick Clark's Rocking New Year's Eve wasn't on television, so I could look away from the television, down my drink, flirt with some Vancouverites, and dance with abandon at the tiny piano bar we'd adopted as our own. 

Admittedly not my finest moment.  (Thanks, Emily Mooren.)

For New Year's last year, I hopped a flight to Europe.  I was in love with Munich from the moment I arrived at the Hauptbahnhof (central train station) in the early dawn.  Tipped off about Silvester by Markus, an industrial designer and volunteer firefighter that I'd met when his fire department invaded my Irish pub the previous night, and fortified by glühwein, I thought I was ready for the celebration.  I was not. 

Shortly after dawn at the glühwein (mulled wine) bar next to the public ice skating rink, Karlsplatz, München.  It was about here that I realized Markus had not been talking about his buddy Sylvester's week of partying, but rather the Feast of St. Sylvester - a 4th century pope.  Our patois of German and English was perhaps not as effective as we thought.

At midnight, with a ragtag crew of international hostel kids in tow, I arrived in the center of the city.  I couldn't hear voices - every twenty feet, another group was setting off fireworks in the middle of the street - so I just twirled.  My neighbors uncorked a champagne, dousing my hair with the spray, then included me as they passed around the bottle.  Above me, the long yellow-white fuses that I call weeping willows were tracing arcs across the sky, punctuated by bright white corkscrews and red and green globes.  A quick pop behind me and confetti suddenly started settling on my head.  I grinned. 

Christoph (South Africa), Matt (Australia), and Yulia (Russia) hop onto the bar just before midnight.  Everyone else leans over the bar and out of the frame to get the bartenders' attention.

The apparently unregulated mix of explosive devices, alcohol, and children gave me an overwhelming satisfaction.  It was not "America safe," nor the structured entertainment of Times Square, but it was a pure and authentic celebration.  It engaged my mind and my spirit.  It made me feel alive.

I chase that feeling, so this year I'm looking at going abroad again.  My best friend votes for Banff or Jasper, Alberta.  It should be pretty close to a new moon at the turn of the year, so we can hope for the Northern Lights to appear as we ice skate on a torch-lit lake.

Where would you go?

The Lack of Female Road Narratives...and Why I Shouldn't Care

Yesterday, I read Vanessa Vaselka's essay about female road narratives, which discussed in depth how the archetypal young man is finding himself on the open road while the archetypal young woman is running away from something horrific at home.  When a woman travels alone, the thinking goes, she is setting herself up as a victim, perhaps even of rape or death.  Some of her commenters disagreed, providing Hollywood narratives and personal anecdotes of positive experiences on the road.

Intriguing.

I've traveled a fair amount as a solo woman.  Unlike Vanessa and many of her readers, I don't hitchhike and I carry a nice camera and purse, so my experiences are skewed with the knowledge that I look like a better target for theft than anonymous murder.  I am confident that I can handle that threat.  I know I have the memory to describe a thief accurately and the wherewithal to notice one in the first place.  I can get out of sticky situations that threaten me physically.  I believe that, generally, people are helpful and well-intentioned.  Most of the time, they are.  Still, I always have that niggling voice in the back of my mind telling me to look out for danger.

Road Trip: Let's Go Red!

Ah, spring break. Most people would be daydreaming of lounging on cocktail-strewn sand someplace warm. I was pulling out my game-worn hockey jersey, grabbing my warmest red and white gear, lining up at the box office for student tickets, and preparing to lose my voice. It was the conference championship. I couldn't let my boys down now.

Susan and I whipped over the hilly two-lane highways between Ithaca and Albany, braking only to pass through hamlets with known speed traps. On the way, we studied the opposing rosters.

Tim Plant - Vermont forward.
Plant him on the bench!

Chris Smart
Still at a safety school.

Kevin Du - Harvard center.
Duuuu nothing.

Dov Grommet-Morris.
Hmm. He's good. We'll just have to pull out the usual goalie cheers - Give me a G…R…O…M…M…etc. What's that spell? Sieve!

Four games later, we had passed out cough drops, received invitations from players' parents, cheered for the Harvard-Colgate semifinal to make it into triple overtime ("Our team's sleep-ing!”), watched Cornell advance to the national tournament, celebrated post-game, accidentally locked ourselves into the parking garage, imposed on the hospitality of people we'd met that evening, and gotten a written citation on our way out of town. A question lingered. Would we cut our skiing short and go to the national tourney?

Of course we would. To Minneapolis we went, in one crazy 17-hour burst. Vermont and Massachusetts went quickly. New York was familiar. The monotony of Ohio and Indiana could only be overcome with copious energy drinks. Then there was Chicago. Our road atlas was not up to the task of Chicago. Several unexpected tolls and a few detours later, we left Illinois poorer but refocused. We quickly reverted back to boredom, as Wisconsin’s main attraction appeared to be the dark lumps beside the road that might have been haystacks. In the early dawn, we crossed the Mississippi on I-35 and pulled into a parking garage for a nap. We were there.

Jittery from sugar and caffeine, giddy from excitement, Susan and I met the prior weekend’s hosts outside Mariucci Arena. Cornell's Lynah Faithful have a camaraderie, but the bond is intensified the further you are from Ithaca's Lynah Rink.  At 1100 miles, we hugged and laughed with people we barely knew. Together, we Cornellians walked into the home of the Minnesota Golden Gophers – and realized we were 100 amongst 10,000. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers had but one goal.

Make ourselves known.

WANDERLUST: Ragnar Relay

Last week, my Facebook feed started populating itself with pictures of tutus and custom signets, motivational running quotes, last-minute pleas for a runner, and the back-and-forth typical of any large group traveling to a new city.  Who's in town?  When and where should we meet for dinner?  What are you guys doing anyway?

The Ragnar Relay.  200 miles (more or less), 4-12 friends, 2 vans, 2 days, 1 night.  My lovely, insane friends were about to run from the Rocky Gap State Park in Flintstone, MD (think Western Maryland, beyond the narrowest part) through Hagerstown, Frederick, Rockville, Bethesda, DC's Rock Creek Park, Virginia's Arlington and Alexandria, and across the Woodrow Wilson Bridge to National Harbor, MD.  And because this is the type of event that encourages fun, and because the team name was "Red, White, and Tutu," they were going to do so in red, white, and blue tulle.

Fun on a Furloughed Budget

I live in DC. This morning, the U.S. federal government shut down. My military friends went to work as usual. My federal employee friends went in to work to sign furlough paperwork. Battered by sequestration furloughs all summer long, they took yet another hit to their salary. Some of them are deemed essential personnel, meaning they are now working for free. Some are being turned loose on the streets. This sucks.

But hey - where there are lemons, make lemonade. (Or limoncello, if you’re attending one of the many government shutdown day-drinking parties my Facebook feed is telling me about.) And in that spirit, let’s recap the free or nearly-free things to do in the DC region this week. No longer tied to the office during daylight hours, but definitely on a budget, the furloughed can finally explore the city!

FREE

Visit Congress
The Capitol is affected by the shutdown like everything else – there are no official tours and the visitor center is closed. However, the House and Senate Galleries are open. Call ahead to your senator or representative, arrange to pick up a gallery pass (you’ll likely get a pass to each gallery), and enter the galleries via the Capitol Visitor Center. Prepare for long lines, be ready to leave your bags outside the gallery, and expect to be encouraged to leave after about 15 minutes. Sitting in the Gallery is rarely participatory, but you’ve already made your views known when you picked up the passes, right?
UPDATE: Given the shooting at the Capitol and the reduction in a lot of staffs, you MAY not be able to get passes to the galleries.  Call ahead.