I have a theory on New Years. Fewer holidays are more fraught with high expectations in North American culture than this one. People spend ridiculous amounts of money on lacklustre meals, expensive outfits and lame bar events filled with random drunken strangers. And every year, the experience inevitably falls short.
But rather than wave the white flag at the whole occasion, I've stumbled across the ultimate solution: leave the country. No unrealistic expectations are created and the newness of the locale brings its own excitement. An impulsive DC night with the Southern cousins gave birth to this idea, so the next year was a girls trip to Paris, garnering dates with charming Frenchmen and toasting at the Eiffel Tower. Last year's jaunt to Portland was a definite highlight with its uproarious McMenamin's fueled festivities, even though we were all tucked up in our toasty hotel beds by midnight.
This year was much more calm, partly to do with sharing the occasion with my visiting parents, and partly because, well, it's more reflective of my state of being these days: the gathering close of people who matter and the quiet required to sift through the beauty and difficulty of these past months.
Counting down in Italian, listening to the philharmonic play beautifully in Piazza della Signoria underneath
The Rape of the Sabine, one of my favourite sculptures studied in Western Civ 12, and hearing the joyous popping of champagne corks in the cold night air, a new peace crept over me. Last year I was surrounded by wide-open potential - love and friendship and a year in Italy to mark a new life chapter.
Welcoming 2011 was more of a choice, without the same sparkling wine headiness of adventure and possibilities. But welcome it I did, with a sigh of relief to bid
ciao to 2010, and a quiet assurance that there is so much more good to come this year than I could ever imagine.
After all, it started in Florence.
