This article is from the source 'nytimes' and was first published or seen on . It last changed over 40 days ago and won't be checked again for changes.

You can find the current article at its original source at https://www.nytimes.com/2018/12/27/opinion/sunday/new-years-eve-party-travel.html

The article has changed 2 times. There is an RSS feed of changes available.

Version 0 Version 1
The Best New Year’s Eve Party Is in Seat 17A The Best New Year’s Eve Party Is in Seat 17A
(about 20 hours later)
When the clock struck midnight at the Oakland Coliseum on Jan. 1, 1990, I should’ve known that it would all go downhill from there for my future New Year’s Eves.When the clock struck midnight at the Oakland Coliseum on Jan. 1, 1990, I should’ve known that it would all go downhill from there for my future New Year’s Eves.
I was at a Grateful Dead concert. I’d scored a “miracle”— that’s Deadhead for a freebie ticket, often bestowed in the 11th hour. The band played “Dark Star” (they almost never played “Dark Star”). I was happy that the ’80s were finally over; any nostalgic notions that it was a kind and gentle decade are deeply misguided.I was at a Grateful Dead concert. I’d scored a “miracle”— that’s Deadhead for a freebie ticket, often bestowed in the 11th hour. The band played “Dark Star” (they almost never played “Dark Star”). I was happy that the ’80s were finally over; any nostalgic notions that it was a kind and gentle decade are deeply misguided.
And the main thing is, I was young. Why lament the passage of time rather than celebrate it when you’ve got all the time in the world stretched out ahead of you? What 18-year-old has the foresight to have foresight?And the main thing is, I was young. Why lament the passage of time rather than celebrate it when you’ve got all the time in the world stretched out ahead of you? What 18-year-old has the foresight to have foresight?
My New Year’s Eve memories from the decade that followed are fragmentary and faintly rotten, like milk just starting to sour. There were awkward parties I squirmed out of before I had to stand around a TV pretending that watching people in parkas watching a ball is entertainment. There was the time a swaying stranger on the subway threw up much too close to my feet for comfort.My New Year’s Eve memories from the decade that followed are fragmentary and faintly rotten, like milk just starting to sour. There were awkward parties I squirmed out of before I had to stand around a TV pretending that watching people in parkas watching a ball is entertainment. There was the time a swaying stranger on the subway threw up much too close to my feet for comfort.
Yet I persisted in the performance of forced merriment demanded of us by this bully of a holiday — until I went to another concert, one that featured a former punk idol whose dissolution and incoherence made for a disheartening, not-fun-at-all spectacle, followed by a long wait for a taxi in frigid weather in hopes of quelling the possibility of anyone barfing near my boots on the subway again. No taxi came, but I sure felt that hypothermia would. I took a vow: I would never go out on New Year’s Eve again.Yet I persisted in the performance of forced merriment demanded of us by this bully of a holiday — until I went to another concert, one that featured a former punk idol whose dissolution and incoherence made for a disheartening, not-fun-at-all spectacle, followed by a long wait for a taxi in frigid weather in hopes of quelling the possibility of anyone barfing near my boots on the subway again. No taxi came, but I sure felt that hypothermia would. I took a vow: I would never go out on New Year’s Eve again.
Not long after I made that promise to myself, the man I would later marry moved in with me. He was a great cook, and didn’t like crowds, so small dinner parties at home were exactly his speed for New Year’s Eve, and that suited me fine. It became our tradition to spend most of the week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve making cassoulet, that excellent bean casserole of southwestern France. We submitted duck legs to nice confit baths, cured slabs of pork belly, sometimes even made sausage; we went for it.Not long after I made that promise to myself, the man I would later marry moved in with me. He was a great cook, and didn’t like crowds, so small dinner parties at home were exactly his speed for New Year’s Eve, and that suited me fine. It became our tradition to spend most of the week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve making cassoulet, that excellent bean casserole of southwestern France. We submitted duck legs to nice confit baths, cured slabs of pork belly, sometimes even made sausage; we went for it.
Finally, on the night itself, we ate it in the company of a few friends with equally robust appetites, whom we shooed out of our small apartment as soon after midnight as politeness permitted, and as gently as we could.Finally, on the night itself, we ate it in the company of a few friends with equally robust appetites, whom we shooed out of our small apartment as soon after midnight as politeness permitted, and as gently as we could.
Seven years after we married, cancer killed my husband. Of course there could be no more New Year’s Eve cassoulet after that — not because I couldn’t cook it by myself, but because, well, I couldn’t cook it by myself.Seven years after we married, cancer killed my husband. Of course there could be no more New Year’s Eve cassoulet after that — not because I couldn’t cook it by myself, but because, well, I couldn’t cook it by myself.
With its promise of new beginnings, fresh starts, all that, New Year’s Eve is supposed to feel auspicious and meaningful. We bind our desires to a square on the calendar, even though we understand how arbitrary that is, even though we know better. Healthy or sick, wealthy or poor, wedded or widowed — we are expected to get out there and revel, even when the last thing many of us want is to mark that time is passing so obviously and so ruthlessly. And no matter how low key my approach to the holiday had become, there seemed to be no way to subvert it altogether.With its promise of new beginnings, fresh starts, all that, New Year’s Eve is supposed to feel auspicious and meaningful. We bind our desires to a square on the calendar, even though we understand how arbitrary that is, even though we know better. Healthy or sick, wealthy or poor, wedded or widowed — we are expected to get out there and revel, even when the last thing many of us want is to mark that time is passing so obviously and so ruthlessly. And no matter how low key my approach to the holiday had become, there seemed to be no way to subvert it altogether.
Then, a couple of years ago, work required me to be in England in early January. As I looked at flights from New York to London, I noticed that if I left two days sooner than I’d intended, the price dropped substantially. That, I assumed, was because flying two days earlier would mean flying on New Year’s Eve.Then, a couple of years ago, work required me to be in England in early January. As I looked at flights from New York to London, I noticed that if I left two days sooner than I’d intended, the price dropped substantially. That, I assumed, was because flying two days earlier would mean flying on New Year’s Eve.
“Who flies on New Year’s Eve?” an automatic impulse made me ask myself, with an implicit “when they should be out celebrating” trailing close behind. But as soon as I shook off the dandruff of cultural conditioning, I knew exactly what sort of person would fly — and alone, no less — on New Year’s Eve: me. That’s who.“Who flies on New Year’s Eve?” an automatic impulse made me ask myself, with an implicit “when they should be out celebrating” trailing close behind. But as soon as I shook off the dandruff of cultural conditioning, I knew exactly what sort of person would fly — and alone, no less — on New Year’s Eve: me. That’s who.
I embraced the scheme, as though, like some kind of strategic mastermind, I’d planned it that way all along. Flying on New Year’s Eve provided a ready excuse to turn down invitations (or to feel fine if I didn’t get any). I also didn’t mind saving a couple of hundred bucks. Plus, I’d heard a rumor that the airlines serve Champagne, gratis, to their New Year’s Eve guests.I embraced the scheme, as though, like some kind of strategic mastermind, I’d planned it that way all along. Flying on New Year’s Eve provided a ready excuse to turn down invitations (or to feel fine if I didn’t get any). I also didn’t mind saving a couple of hundred bucks. Plus, I’d heard a rumor that the airlines serve Champagne, gratis, to their New Year’s Eve guests.
Although I can’t presume to understand what dwelled in the hearts and minds of my fellow passengers, they struck me as kindred spirits: No one showed any sign of caring that it was New Year’s Eve. I saw not one sparkly hat. Zero noisemakers. Not a single fleck of confetti. We were quietly united in our not-celebration. I really liked those people.Although I can’t presume to understand what dwelled in the hearts and minds of my fellow passengers, they struck me as kindred spirits: No one showed any sign of caring that it was New Year’s Eve. I saw not one sparkly hat. Zero noisemakers. Not a single fleck of confetti. We were quietly united in our not-celebration. I really liked those people.
That complementary Champagne rumor? Not true — at least in my coach-class experience. I went ahead and splurged on a glass, not as a concession to the holiday but just to treat myself: Champagne always tastes better on a regular, no-occasion Thursday than it does on an anniversary, right? It was cold and fizzy and delicious, and it paired perfectly with the small bag of potato chips the flight attendant tossed on my tray (at least that was free). That complimentary Champagne rumor? Not true — at least in my coach-class experience. I went ahead and splurged on a glass, not as a concession to the holiday but just to treat myself: Champagne always tastes better on a regular, no-occasion Thursday than it does on an anniversary, right? It was cold and fizzy and delicious, and it paired perfectly with the small bag of potato chips the flight attendant tossed on my tray (at least that was free).
But the flight also gave me something much better than that: In a way, it made New Year’s Eve cease to exist. If it’s past midnight at your destination, but not yet at home, and who even knows what time zone you’re in, anyway — is it really the end of the year at all? And does it matter? And hey, what is time? Up in the air, New Year’s Eve turns into an elegant, existential riddle. And by the time I touched down at Heathrow, 2017 already felt like old news, which was exactly what I wanted.But the flight also gave me something much better than that: In a way, it made New Year’s Eve cease to exist. If it’s past midnight at your destination, but not yet at home, and who even knows what time zone you’re in, anyway — is it really the end of the year at all? And does it matter? And hey, what is time? Up in the air, New Year’s Eve turns into an elegant, existential riddle. And by the time I touched down at Heathrow, 2017 already felt like old news, which was exactly what I wanted.
Luckily, I get to do it again this year because of another work trip, and I can’t wait not to celebrate. But as much as I wish I could, I can’t afford to fly away from New Year’s Eve every year. If you can swing it, and if you feel as I do about the holiday, I encourage you to let yourself off the hook this way some day. Just don’t make it a resolution — that’s exactly the kind of pressure you don’t need.Luckily, I get to do it again this year because of another work trip, and I can’t wait not to celebrate. But as much as I wish I could, I can’t afford to fly away from New Year’s Eve every year. If you can swing it, and if you feel as I do about the holiday, I encourage you to let yourself off the hook this way some day. Just don’t make it a resolution — that’s exactly the kind of pressure you don’t need.
Rosie Schaap (@rosieschaap) is the author of “Drinking With Men: A Memoir.”Rosie Schaap (@rosieschaap) is the author of “Drinking With Men: A Memoir.”
Follow The New York Times Opinion section on Facebook, Twitter (@NYTopinion) and Instagram.Follow The New York Times Opinion section on Facebook, Twitter (@NYTopinion) and Instagram.