Her World : New Year’s Memories

I can remember, with gentle certainty, where I have been every New Year’s Eve. That is not because I have terrific recall, but because I so rarely have stayed up until midnight.

When in the United States on the last night of the year, I often flick on a radio to hear the horns and bells of the Times Square celebrations in New York City. I raise a toast to Peace on Earth and then fall asleep, grateful that where I live it is only 9 p.m.

I first stayed up for New Year’s Eve with pals at the resort of Las Cruces at the tip of Baja California. Or, if I didn’t stay up exactly, I was dozing by the hearth when someone handed me a margarita and said: “Welcome to 1971.”

The next year I was in Italy and the rains were fierce. After a candlelight supper in Florence, my husband and I set out under an enormous umbrella to walk to the floodlighted Duomo.

Suddenly, furry missiles were falling from above. I thought with dread of the cats-and-dogs cliche, but it was only raining bedroom slippers. Apparently, in Northern Italy, it is part of the out-with-the-old, in-with-the-new tradition to toss ragged shoes from windows.

Yellowstone Park

The coldest New Year’s Eve I have known was at Old Faithful lodge in Yellowstone Park. We had gone in on a tank-like vehicle from Jackson Hole, Wyo., through the glittering crunch of dry snow.

Icicles hung from cabin roofs, forming crystal bars over the windows. My family, and our friends, were the only people at dinner who were not part of a reunion of snowmobile clubs from Cheyenne and Sheridan.

It was a winter when the door locks froze and it took an acetylene torch to get inside the cabins, which were almost without heat. It was a night when we slept in all the clothes we had, and bundled four to a bed. There was later an argument about whether it was 37 below zero or colder. Of course, I’d go back again.

The highest I’ve been on New Year’s Eve was probably 41,000 feet. It’s a jolly time to be in a jet, soaring home from Cairo, or Spain, or Wales. Airline crews are mellow on holidays and, if you’re lucky, so are other passengers.

The most tender New Year’s Eve of my life was in London with two friends who supported me in emergency sickness and then in health. They came to the hospital. They lighted the candle. It would have been frightening alone.

If I were to look a full year ahead, and resolve to make travel plans, I would consider:

Dunk Island, out from Townsville, near Australia’s Great Barrier Reef.

The Seychelles, out from everywhere, in the clear waters of the British Virgins in the clear waters of the Indian Ocean. Virgin Gorda (and gorda means fat ), on eof the British Virgins in the Caribbean.

The Big Island of Hawaii, where, if you tire of the sun and the surf, you can hire a guide to take you adventure skiing on the 13,000-foot slopes of Mauna Kea.

I would consider going back to Rovaniemi in Finnish Lapland, where the reindeer play in the dark of day and the Lapps’ welcome is warm. And certainly I would travel to Vienna, so rich with coffee houses and chocolates, concerts of Strauss and empiric pageantry.

Celebration at Sea

I would remember that cruise ships everywhere gear up for New Year’s Eve and there’s no quibble with drinking and driving, except for the designated captain.

When positioning yourself for New Year’s Eve, you must factor in how much you care about the rites of bowl games.

That is where I’ll be this year: cheering by the television for good football in the name of roses and oranges, cotton and sugar, and all the merry-come-latelys.

I will travel only as far as the popcorn popper and the pot of black-eyed peas in the kitchen. And that is good, too!