Auld Lang Syne.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne!

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We'll take a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.  

- Robert Burns

I understand why New Year’s Eve is about staying up late, drinking alcohol and kissing. Being a sweeper is a lot of pressure and in holiday time, six days is like six minutes. 

Something very different is needed for a successful climax in the final round of the holiday season.

Thanksgiving kicks it off, a food, family and festivity inspired frenzy that culminates a month later when bank accounts are weak, family dynamics are both warm and wired, and exhaustion guarantees that no creatures will be stirring. By the time the man in red drops down the chimney and every ham, goose and turkey has been cooked, everyone needs a long winter’s nap.

Which is why I haven’t made it to many ball drops. But I have remembered them all.

As a child we watched the ball drop thousands of miles away, racing into the dead of an Arctic night with sparklers as rifles rang as the ghostly white Aurora Borealis danced above. There was the high school friend’s unsanctioned party. There was the New Year’s Eve that I spent on a red eye from Phoenix to Toronto after a Def Leppard concert with my younger brother and the 24-hours in Buffalo at the tail end of college.

There was the New Year’s Eve when we ordered in sushi, watched “Dude, Where’s My Car?” and drank wine with abandon only to throw in the towel at 15 to midnight. There was the time we listened to the radio in the dark as Journey squeezed a little more life out of their career. There were the years he worked, telling me over the phone that he wished he was at home kissing me instead of ducking for cover as revelers fired into the air, letting bullets fall where they may. And then there was the one I don’t remember, the angry one that followed, and the lonely one after that.

365 days ago, I sat right here watching wishes of all the best float across the screen. And the poem that Robert Burns wrote so long ago stung.

Like everyone else, I made a vow. To work less and live more. To make our house a home again. To slow down and enjoy the moments in my children’s lives that will happen only once. To write more. To never forget who and what came before and to look ahead to who and what may lie ahead.

And when the ball drops tonight and we are surrounded by the merriment of friends as Auld Lang Syne floats through the air, I’ll vow to do it all over again.

Please, Take Your Seat.

Buzz about the Pan Am-era aside, I’ve never understood the excitement of air travel. If there’s glitz to be found, it must be in the other terminal. The one I’m not flying in or out of. I’ve been on airplanes for as long as I can remember, racing the sun as it sets on the horizon. 

As a child a rattling DC3 – more tin can than twin engine – was the only way in or out of our little town. While other kids learned how to navigate bus routes and subway stations, I learned the most efficient way to maneuver through airports in various cities and towns, what to pack and what to carry. As an adult, I refined the art. I once flew to Washington, D.C. to sit through a meeting before flying to New Jersey for a presentation and then back to Arizona for an important event. In 24 hours.

For me, a plane doesn’t mean exotic places and breathtaking landscapes. It is simply a means to an end. There is, however, one thing that never disappoints. The boarding process.

It’s like playing Roulette – you never know what you’re going to get when you spin the wheel.  

In five minutes, this airplane is supposed to taxi down the runway and lift me up and away for nine days. But while everyone is seated, the woman directly in front of me has yet to park her disheveled rump. I’m secretly hoping the flight attendant will man up but watching her blatantly ignore him, I am resigned to the fact that we simply aren’t leaving the tarmac anytime soon.

“Lafayette? I have your duty-free merchandise.”

“I’m not Lafayette. I’m Rucher.”

“Ma’am, do you have a seat on this airplane?”

“I do, but it is at the back of the plane and they just boarded.”

“That doesn’t matter. You have a seat assignment and so do they. And you are in theirs. I have to ask you to move to your seat immediately so that you don’t delay our departure any longer.”

I’m headed to France not because it was my first choice, but because the girlfriend I arm twisted into going with me wanted Italy and I wanted Scotland and neither of us wanted England. But, the more I Googled the more I ogled. Ancient abbeys, opulent castles and towering cathedrals. Bucolic countryside and gardens bursting with color. Crepes, cheeses, wines and breads. A history so deep you could spend a lifetime swimming in it. Landscapes both pastoral and powerful. Looking up to see who "they" are, I can’t help but smile. The guidebooks were right.

French architecture is spectacular.

Rules of the Road.

If we weren’t in a Babylon standoff, this would be a good time to make casual mention of the professional camaraderie he shares with my late husband. Even mentioning the fact that he is my “late” husband might be helpful. Except that right now it doesn’t really matter what I have tucked away in my arsenal of feminine wiles because it is clear that he is not amused. 

At all.

And yet here I am, standing in the middle of a medieval cobblestone street wedged between the tiny car zipping us around Northern France and the irritated gendarmes glowering up at me from their unimpressive car of official importance. Irritated gendarmes who happened to turn down this tiny cobblestone street lined with tightly knit and not-quite-straight medieval buildings at the same time that we did. 

Going the wrong way.   

We have managed to ride the Paris underground, drive the city’s maze of fast-moving one-way streets and navigate small villages bursting with flowers, husbandry and centuries-old manor houses and cottages. We didn’t sink in fabled quicksand, jumped a car parked so close to the French Coast that if the wind blew any harder it would have gone into the French Coast and we’ve proven that tow trucks are no faster on this side of the pond than they are on the other. But it is here, in the labyrinth of this windblown seaside town’s walled and winding streets, that Fodors, Vodafone and good behavior have abandoned us.

I’ve asked a garbage man, an electrician and a surly waiter. We stopped in the middle of a road and accosted a lady out for a stroll. And I am fairly certain that when she turned to look for traffic and my face filled her window, the woman in the parking lot locked her car doors. The man parked in the alley was in my direction-seeking sights until we pulled close and realized he appeared to be busy with his toolbox. Which is why standing in the middle of this road with the long arm of the law glaring at me is on par with the American thunderstorm brewing in the little Twingo behind me.

“Vous parlez anglaise?”

“Non.”

“Ah.”

If you’ve been following along, you know that while challenges do not become me they also don’t get the best of me. And getting back in the car without a well-defined route to the beachfront retreat that is the entire – and only – reason we are lost is not an option. Mentally evaluating my options as I stand in the intersection of foreign irritation and friendly fire, I have no choice.

A smile. A flutter. “Directions, s’il vous plait?” Return to the smile. Flutter again. Movements that are as comfortable as a wet sweater or a pair of shoes two sizes too small. Watching his gestures and listening to his partner’s laughter I realize that no matter what happens in life, there are some things that never change. Like the way a smile can stop traffic.

And get you a police escort to the front door.