New Year's Eve 2009

For reasons still unknown, I decided to leave the detail of travel to New York until the last minute. Coming up upon 36 hours until departure from Newark, I bit the bullet and purchased a flight from Continental.com; a serious assault on my conscience and Visa card. Not more than 15 minutes later, I received a hastily written email offering me a seat in an overnight ride to New York City. Like a fish out of water, I sprung to my keyboard and within minutes had all but eradicated the traces of my flight reservation.

Loudly preceded by their jovial ora, Amanda and Jenny pulled up into the driveway as I stood talking travels-past with the night watchman. We eagerly made friends as I tossed my guitar atop their bags in the brimming trunk and put my worldly possessions into the back seat beside me. Off we hurried, pausing only briefly to unearth my seatbelt from its hiding spot in the mechanical abiss that was the backseat.

We hurtled forward talking of school, work, travels, music and life – anything and everything plus everything in between. Midnight flapped in our windy wake like a tired flag while the kilometres fought and failed to keep up our determined pace. Not even the clutches of the border could detain us longer than it took Jenny (bless her German heart) to acquire what ended up being a mildly disappointing stamp to commemorate her innaugural voyage onto Uncle Sam’s mythical turf.

Full we steamed into and across the land of metric-no-more, eagerly racking up miles and counting down the minutes to our destination. An anonymous rest stop came and went, desolate in the thick of the night; our gas-pumping night-owl conscious of little more than the bite-sized virgin snow flakes dancing Newton’s ballet towards our heads.

Clouds blanketing the stars, we were suddenly surrounded by deep blue. Then purple, then red, then orange. And then the night bid us good-morning just as abruptly as the sun had bid us farewell the dusk prior. Then in all its glory, New Jersey appeared as if out of a dream; its marvelous, countless rivers of cars inching along the highway, barely covering a mile in an hour. Then finally the bottleneck, the rubberneck, the man who chanced that he and his truck were no match for winter weather. Alackaday.

The Lincoln Tunnel: long, skinny, underwater – just like Abe would have wanted it. Then Manhattan. Ceaseless, endless, careless Manhattan. The place practically screamed with life and the energy of its constituents. People filled the streets and danced about in an almost choreographed frenzy. It must have been New Years’ Eve.

Logistics a nightmare always, I found a safe place to stow my bag then began my aimlessly charged wander. Not on the prowl for 20 minutes, I happened into the presence of a young Italian, determined also to see what IT was all about. We queued futily for a tour of the UN then resolved to a subway trip and a bipedal wander of Little Italy (there’s something inherently comical about a thickly accented Italian proper asking directions to this place). We enjoyed wraps and espresso at Cha Cha’s Italian café, charmed little dive, walls adorned with photos of the countless celebrities that may once have considered coming inside.

As dusk took hold, Matteo and I strolled up Broadway and into Washington Square before spending an hour looking around Greenwich Village. We settled upon a previously recommended bar called Arturo’s. To my thrill, a hard-swinging unplugged piano trio filled the air with a sonic flavour so rich you could taste it. There at the bar we sat while a tuxedo-clad Antonio (Tony) served us no small number of generously poured glasses of red wine. An ever-evolving clan of delightfully cliché New Yorkers made for the most excellent bemusements two stray travelers could ever hope to absorb. A truly sensational, thin-on-the-crust, heavy-on-the-cheese margharita pizza made all the more excellent our arrangement.

Logistics again the backstabber, I left Arturo’s alone about an hour before the ball was to drop. With only a bit of hassle, I retrieved me belongings from the 42nd street station and stood intersect with 9th Ave., amidst an unexcited crowd of hundreds a half mile from, but within sight of Times Square. The bus was easy to find and the trio of overtime-embracing drivers gladly stowed my accoutrements onboard while we stood half a block away, waiting for the count down.

10... 9... 8... 7... 6... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... "Heck yeah. It's 2010!"

"So it is," said one of the drivers, "happy fuckin' new year's." A shot from his flask.

The few hundred people walking around at 9th & 42nd made a handful of similar mumbles while one or two anonymous woooooos barely cut through the sound of traffic. Within less than two minutes, I found myself back on board the bus with a driver and one other passenger who was investing the vast majority of his energy into a cell phone conversation, the language of which I failed to identify.

All in a day's work. I slept continentally on a bench in Liberty International's first terminal.