"...Three, two, one, Happy New Year!" My voice rang out with the rest of the New Year's revelers as I sat in my living room nine years ago, a bushy-eyebrowed thirteen year old who dreamed of joining the crowd in Times Square. My constant companion at the time - my journal - lay beside me as I wrote in my New Year's resolution for the Millennium; I was going to get those "2000" glasses by the year 2009.
Fast forward to New Year's Eve, 2008. I had planned on this trip for a month now and nothing except death itself was going to thwart me in my endeavors. I glanced out of the plane window for the fortieth time in an hour; still no lights were visible through the fog. It was almost six pm, just six hours till the famous ball drop in NYC and here I was, stuck in the sky above the city, fearing a diversion due to weather. Imagine that.
"Flight attendants, landing check." Upon hearing the captain's command that we had been cleared for landing, I did a Napoleon Dynamite-esque "Yes!" and proceeded to take my seat for the remainder of the bumpy descent. Finally, the wheels touched the runway and I could breathe my relief.
"Buh-bye, thank you, buh-bye." I was almost certain the deplaning passengers could hear the underlying, "GET OFF PEOPLE! I'VE GOT A BALL TO CATCH!" in my salutation.
An hour later and I was sitting on the N train headed to Fifth Avenue and Central Park. Abdulla, my seat mate, became my new Facebook friend as we studied the dense map of train lines and city streets, two non-natives on our way to our first NY New Year. I bade him farewell at my stop and waited to meet up with my funny friends from high school, The Catholic Priest In Training and My-Yet-To-Be-Discovered-How-We-Are-Related fifth cousin. The night wind shot needles straight through me. There was a small nook of sheltering concrete at the edge of the subway station, so I squeezed myself tightly into it, praying that my friends would show their frozen mugs soon. Finally, I spotted them, sarcastic hellos exchanged in jest, their warm hugs belying their true feelings.
Ben, the cousin, was appointed the official tour guide, eliciting a giggle from me and I'm sure a mental guffaw from the Priest as he pulled out his $16.95 guide book to NY. I was too cold to be opinionated about where we partook of our dinner so I blindly followed Ben to the F train as Austin delicately stated, "Let's just get out of the cold...I can't feel mine anymore."
Off we paraded to SoHo, the train car surprisingly far less empty than I would have expected on New Year's Eve. I leaned back into the lull of the rocking car, the clicking metal of the wheels on the tracks chanting a spell of imagined words. Apparently Cuzzin Benny had decided on Brazilian food, because he led the way to a quaint spot situated on a street corner, the robin's egg blue paint framing the windows marred with age. We squeezed into one of the ten tightly packed tables in the restaurant, my eyes flitting flirtatiously to the cute Hispanic waiter in the corner.
"Hmph," I murmured when he failed to make eyes back at me. Well, he was too skinny anyway. As a matter of fact, I couldn't help laughing as the waiters shimmied between the narrowly stuffed tables. Being a skeleton must be a prerequisite to work there.
We settled in to enjoy our meal, the boys laughing at my expression as I sipped their offered Cabernet Sauvignon. Red wine always leaves my throat feeling like I just drank a bottle of Vick's Throat Spray. When I recovered enough from my internal third degree burns to enjoy my food, I dug into my delicious spinach and goat cheese salad. Austin began to ramble about his new obsession with cheese and how he thanked the French for their dedication to bringing the world the fine delicacies of exotic tastes and smells. He also said he would definitely give up celibacy for a French Natalie Portman who served him cheeses in bed. At least, I think that's what he said. That sip of red wine could have gotten to me more than I thought.
I stole a bite of Ben's dish, declaring it tasted like Seattle's Pike Place Fish Market in my mouth. Ben, who, of course, wins smartass of the century, proceeded to inform me that that was impossible because his entree is, indeed, shrimp and chicken.
"Um, yeah, fish," I quipped.
"Crustacean, Meredith. Crustacean."
I glanced at my Priest for a little help, but in typical Austin fashion, he raised his hands in an attempt to avoid taking sides.
When the boys had downed their third glass of wine each and the Priest's conversation began to meander into prostate territory rather than the prostrate one, we decided it was time to return to the Arctic to clear our heads.
No sooner were we outside than I needed something hot for my insides. We headed two blocks over to Prince Street, whooshing into Fanelli's Cafe, joining the eclectic group of patrons already sipping warm liquors. We sat at tables adorned with red-checkered table cloths, the heavy wooden decor adding a nice coziness. Gene Kelly musical excerpts played on the tv above our heads as the boys oogled, er, I mean ordered from, the waitress. I cocked my ear to eavesdrop as the man at the next table over declared he could discover the native New Yorkers in the bar within five minutes of conversation. I almost felt sorry for the man, so oblivious to the glazed eyes of his trapped audience. Suddenly the chill from the front door whipped around my ankles as I glanced up to see the most eccentric bar-goer of all. His fedora sat cocked on his salt and pepper hair, a crisp, ebony bowtie adoring his neck. He took off his coat with a flourish to reveal a smart and shiny tux, complete with coattails. He deftly flipped his coat over one arm, silently commanding the attention of everyone in the room as he stood in the doorway. My imagination began running wild as I pretended that he was from another time and place, that perhaps he was even the founder of the cafe as Fanelli's was almost one hundred years old. I grinned to myself as I sipped my hot chocolate.
An hour to midnight and we decided to make our way back to Central Park, the closest we were going to get as Times Square had been filled by the gluttons for punishment hours earlier. No thanks, I'd rather keep my appendages than lose them to frostbite by spending hours in a subzero climate.
As I ascended the stairs from the subway at our stop, I caught sight of colored flashing lights. I gasped in glee - the glasses!! I recalled my resolution of nine years and squealed as I ushered the boys to the street vendor who offered me a sweet deal.
"Five dollar for you." Ha! How many times have I heard that line in NYC?
I picked out red ones, unable to wipe the silly grin off my face. I put them on, my face transforming into a blinking ad for 2009. A final piece of my spirit fell into its rightful place as my inner thirteen year old squealed with sheer delight. I wore them proudly until I discovered that I would smash my face AND the glasses due to the my lack of depth perception through the dark lenses. I decided to save them for the ball drop.
11:30 pm.
The streets were getting more and more crowded as we crossed Fifth and Sixth Avenues, where the police directed us to Central Park.
"Ok, hold on," the cousin commanded. I grabbed his hand as he plunged into the sea of people, more concerned about dropping my glasses until I realized I had to make sure the Priest didn't get lost in the Mass.
Finally, we made it as close to the big screen as possible, the Jonas Brothers warming the night with their lip-synched vocals. I was disappointed that - yet again - I would receive no kiss at the New Year count down. Of course, I could always be Kissing Cousins with Ben. After all, we did have a Priest at our disposal. On second consideration I dismissed the idea. My thoughts drifted to the Scotsman I'd met early that morning in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, his swoon-worthy accent still ringing in my ears. I decided my best bet would be a virtual kiss with the Scottie, so I readied my phone as I waited for the ball to drop.
I reveled in the relief from the biting wind, warmth emanating from the surrounding bodies. I laughed at the drunken Frenchies in front of us as they downed Vodka disguised in Evian water bottles and puffed on cigarettes in the most French-like fashion. I listened to their lilting voices, quite taken with the beautiful Gaspard Ulliel look-alike in their midst. I'm sure he was gay.
We snapped pictures and stood close together as the countdown began.
"...Three, two, one, Happy New Year!!!!" An unshed tear gleamed in my eye at the surreal feeling of it all, my voice one with the crowd, my feet on New York City concrete as I sported my ridiculous glasses, two of my best friends in the world on either side of me. One of the Frenchies planted a wet kiss on my cheek and I laughed as I escaped to hug Ben and Austin. My phone buzzed and warmth flitted through my middle when Scottie sent me a "soft and passionate" New Year's kiss. Hey, even if it WAS virtual it was definitely a step up from the last twenty-one years!
We were jostled and heaved through the crowd as they dispersed, death daggers shot at us from the couple proceeding us as Ben exclaimed, "Hilary Clinton is the MAN!" Yeeeah. Wrong part of the country to be saying that.
We all munched on burgers and downed a milkshake at a local joint before heading back to our respective hotels. My bladder had taken enough abuse and threatened to commit murder of the nearest unfortunate soul if I didn't give it relief soon. I set out on the adventure of finding the bathrooms in that place.
"Down there," the cook said gruffly. I hestitantly peered into the dimly lit stairwell, loud music drifting from its cavernous depths.
"I've got a gun!" my bladder reminded me. I ventured through the dark hallway until, at last, I saw the restrooms. Thank goodness they weren't unisex. However, they WERE still big enough for two.
I learned that the hard way when I opened the unlocked door and happened upon a man and woman in the girl's bathroom. They hastily explained their mussed hair and rumpled clothing, muttering a lame excuse, something about discussing the weather, I think. Look, jist bekuz i'm frum the south, it dont mak me stoopid.
It actually hurt me to write that.
I bid the boys goodnight and headed uptown to Queens. I got off at the last stop; after waiting for forty minutes in the searing wind, fighting tears and harshly scolding myself for being weak, I realized I'd missed the last city bus. I had no choice but to take a cab to my hotel, rolling my eyes at the cabbie's "deal"of fifteen bucks for a mere three miles.
I had only three hours until I faced another grueling day of complaining passengers and all day on a metal tube, but it was worth it.
My 2009 New Year celebration topped every single one in my book
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