The vast majority of people seem to fall into three distinct categories on the topic of New Year's Eve. The first, are the Despisers of this holiday. A holiday which they feel is contrived and trite. A day that society demands happiness and memorable experiences. According to this type, these expectations often result in disappointment, depression or a hangover, and many times all three. The second group are the Neutrals, who try to enjoy themselves, maybe even buy a new shirt or shoes for the occasion, but they don't require some extravagant event to enjoy themselves. They are satisfied with a small intimate group, but are also open to where ever the night might lead. They have little expectations, but hope for the best.
The last type are the Idealistic Lovers of this eve. These are the people who strive to bring in the new year to cinematic perfection. For them, they pine for a night that is amazing, exciting, and basically stereotypic of every New Year's Eve party seen in movies. Great food, fine wine, loud pulsating music, endless laughter, and countless hours of dancing amidst a plethora of friends. At the stroke of midnight, they dream of being outside in the streets amongst the bustle of eager strangers, with a blanket of snow covering the streets, counting down to midnight together, with heads thrust upwards to observe the colorful fireworks that are to ensue while fluffy, white snowflakes fall on their faces. At midnight, they look to their neighbor, generally a friend or lover, and give each other a long kiss and hug to usher in the new year. Then, collectively man, woman, and child burst into "Auld Lang Syne" with arms stretched across a friend's shoulder or tightly embraced by a lover, or simply holding the hand of a family member. Everyone sways in unison and gleaming, white smiles are in every direction, and perhaps a few women even shed a tear for the year that passed and the future that lay ahead.
Unfortunately, I fall in the last category. Yes, I will admit it, I completely buy into this fantasy, and have always dreamt of having that "moviesque" New Year's Eve with all its glitz, glamour, and fabrication. I have always so desperately desired this that the world has found it the perfect opportunity to spite me. From 2003 to 2006, all four of these New Years were wretched, but I will only talk about the worst.
New Years 2005 takes the cake on misfortune and smashed hopes. I remember there were several options, but I chose a party in Virginia, which a boy I wanted to see was attending. He had enticed me by mentioning there would be a big bonfire in the backyard. My gay friend accompanied me along with another couple. I was dressed for a stylish New Year's Eve with a black blazer, kitten-heels, and a long hound's-tooth coat. I remember the "party" was really just 20 guys standing around a bonfire in sweatpants or camo, drinking beer, or roasting hotdogs. After joining the guys around the fire, a friend gave me the once-over and stated, "You look like a race flag." Clearly, I was overdressed and under-appreciated. (P.S. for all male readers, words to live by, if you think a girl's coat and or outfit makes her look like a race flag. transvestite, yeti, pregnant woman, gondola driver, your mother, zookeeper, your grandmother's couch, librarian, butch bartender or any other thought besides "gorgeously beautiful" that pops into your little head, just keep it to yourself.)
Shortly after arriving and being completely disappointed, my friend and I made our descent back down the muddy embankment toward the car. Suddenly, my foot became engulfed by a thick, bog-like mud. Instinctively, I quickly took another step in order to free my submerged foot, unaware that my shoe wasn't enjoying the same liberation. My socked foot plunged deep into the mud and I could feel the mud seeping through my hosiery. My shoe lay drowning in a sea of mud, and the owner's of the house happened to walk by simultaneously, seeing my predicament and giving a hearty laugh. "You're awfully dressed up!" the mother said to me through her chuckles. With contempt in my heart, I gave a short "ha" and controlled my urge to bitch-slap her.
After digging my shoe out of the mud and a 45 minute journey back to TN, my friend and I ended up in his empty dark house with only 8 minutes before midnight (but remember he only likes men). Promptly on arrival, he excused himself upstairs to "drop the kids off" and I sat in his dark living room alone, staring into his Christmas tree lights, faintly hearing the sound of fireworks, tears forming in my eyes, and entering the new year with no one and no kiss, just a heart full of resentment and disillusion.
In 2006, I surrendered all resolve to have some historical and outstanding New Year's Eve. I accepted the fact that there was no point trying, and I stayed home, while even my parents went out to a party. I waited until midnight, kissed my dog, turned out the lights, and went to sleep. But despite this resolve to not care, somewhere in my heart I still longed for that perfect New Years.
Upon realizing I would be abroad for New Years 2007, the old Idealistic Lover of New Year's Eve had returned with a fervor. This wasn't just any New Years, this was a European New Year's! To my great dismay, plan after plan seemed to fall through until finally, I found myself resigned to the idea of a consecutive lonely, pathetic New Years spent solo in my basement room in Hluboka. However, merely four days before the blasted event, an angel of mercy in form of a German saved me. Little André (still don't know why I insist on saying "little" because he is quite tall) invited me to join him and his good friend, Marco, in Budapest.
On 30 December, I headed towards Budapest once again, exactly 11 months to the day from my first journey to Budapest on January 30, 2007. It seemed more than fitting to end the year where it essentially began. On New Year's Day, I ate lunch at my favorite Budapest restaurant, Pink Caddy, ordered my favorite meal they offer, and shared all this with my only Hungarian friend Peter, who is a phenomenal guy. After our few hours together, I met with André and Marco, and found myself once again on Ráday utca in another cafe.
Post dinner, we headed back to our German friend Bernd's flat, where we were staying for our duration in BP. Despite being only 19:30 in the evening, a party, consisting of mainly Italian men and Hungarian women, was already underway. The flat was filled with cigarette smoke, and booming Italian voices, and Bernd like a proper German mother, ushered us to the table of food insisting I try some authentic German gingerbread, and forcing a mug of hot wine into my hands. He fluttered about the party making sure everyone was properly being saturated in alcohol and preparing more hot wine at the whim of a guest. All that he lacked from being a tentative 1950s-type party hostess was a pink, lace-adorn apron and white high heels. It was rather astounding to see how much he cared about the party.
For the majority of the party André, Marco and I stationed ourselves against a wall and made small talk and watched this flat become more and more cramped with guests. Occasionally, one of us would drift off to talk to someone we had met the previous spring, but all-in-all we didn't interact very much. At one point, I started talking to a German girl named Iris. I learned that she spoke very good English, had lived in Brazil for 2 years studying and was therefore fluent in Portuguese as well. I had many good laughs with her. Later, two of her German friends joined in the conversation, and although I don't remember exactly what we talked about, it was really great and full of laughter. We spoke for about an hour and I was quite melancholy to see them leave. When I click with people, I hate the idea of never seeing or speaking with them again. Also, I desperately wanted to be freed from the unpleasant party.
It wasn't until 23:40 that Marco and I could corral André, and the pretty Hungarian girl he was working his magic on, out of the apartment. She was forced to babysit her drunk friend, which was probably difficult considering she herself wasn't sober and still trying to flirt with André at the same time (luckily she was a woman meaning automatic multi-tasker). After walking down the street at a snail's pace, Marco and I eventually left André with his lady and barely made the tram to Octogon square in time. We managed roughly six steps of the tram when it officially became 2008. Thousands of people surrounded the square and colorful fireworks lit up the sky. An older Hungarian man who was drunk as a skunk thrust a bottle of wine under Marco's nose, and his friend a bottle to me. We wearily said thanks and pretended to take a drink. Jovially, they spoke to us in Hungarian most likely asking us where our drinks were, and laughing at the ridiculousness of not having any spirits at a time such as that.
Marco and I tore our way through a literal sea of people to a stage set up on the other side of the square. We stood around, occasionally bopping to the music that wasn't quite loud enough, but mainly standing with blank stares from the sensory overload. People from various nations were surrounding us. "Happy New Year!" A guy turned to me and said.
I replied "Thanks you too!"
"Oh you speak English?!" he said a bit surprised.
"Yes, where are you from Germany?" detecting his German speaking accent.
"NO! Austria!" he exclaimed sounding slightly offended. It must be like when Canadians get called Americans and get a little irritated.
Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Smiles really were in every direction I turned. People wearing wigs, or 2008 glasses, and most with a bottle of wine or beer in their hands. Ages ranging from 16 to 60 could be spotted partying in the streets. Marco and I didn't talk much but observed it all. Unfortunately, I 'observed' a Spanish/Portuguese guy convincing a very drunken Hungarian girl to pleasure him right then and there under his coat. I was appalled and equally shocked at this ridiculousness. We stayed at Octogon tér for maybe 45 minutes, and then shoved our way into one of the most crowded trams I have ever seen. We were literally packed in like sardines, having to tuck in our butts in order for the door to close. We met a frustrated André and headed toward West Balkan, a popular Pest-side club.
I was quite annoyed that the club cost 1000 forint to enter (a mere 6 USD) but very pricey for Budapest. It was brimming with people. There were gargantuan queues for the coat-check, bathrooms, and bar. It was so congested with people you couldn't even get near the dance floor. As soon as we would find a patch of open floor to dance, people would be pushing past us from all sides. You couldn't shake a hip or lift an arm without assaulting someone or get knocked from behind. After 10 minutes I stopped trying to dance. We basically spent a good two hours being pushed and shoved and listening to mediocre club music.
Eventually, we uniformly agreed to call it a night, and headed back to Bernd's flat. The roads were covered in wet, mushy snow, but the cars had a half of foot of fluffy white snow. My devious nature found this snow seductively laying on the cars to be too much to resist. Cleverly, I scooped an armful and heaved it at André, and within seconds the three of us were entangled in a snow fight. Two of us would gang up on the other, and our alliances would change without warning, making it so in the end we all were evenly snow covered. I perhaps a bit more because my dodging skills leave something to be desired as do my snowball throwing abilities. As I captured the snow that had slid down the front of my shirt, and all three of us panting for breath and laughing, I realized that this 15 minutes of silliness had been the most fun I had all night. Something so simple and childish as a snowball fight could make me happier than all those ideas I had of what constituted a perfect New Year's eve.
Looking back, I realize I got everything I always wanted in a New Year's Eve. Big city, great food, fine wine, loud party, fun friends, snow covered streets, fireworks in a vast square at the stroke of midnight, and dancing amongst strangers. However, movies fail to depict all the awkward, boring lulls at big parties, or the thick cloud of suffocating cigarette smoke you must endure. In a movie, you can't feel the harsh, frigid wind as you watch the fireworks, or the miserable feeling of having the slushy snow soak through your boots, leaving your feet wet and cold. Amazingly, in those posh, crowded bars the actors are never getting shoved to and fro the entire night, and somehow have plenty of space to dance. I guess what it comes down to is that in the end, a movie is fictional, and all of those realistic, uncomfortable elements are removed. Somehow, I failed to truly understand this until that night. Not to be mistaken and say I had a poor time in Budapest, because overall it really was an excellent weekend, and a million times better than sitting alone in my room. It's just that I had a revelation that a 'perfect' New Years eve for me, is NOT what I have seen in movies.
I am not sure I will ever relinquish the desire for the perfect New Year's Eve, I think I will always hope for it, one of my insatiable desires. Yet I learned from this past New Year's Eve that perhaps I don't need all of that false glamour to have an amazing time. It's incredible how sometimes you get exactly what you wanted just to discover it's not what you wanted at all.
