As The Clock Struck 12...

I had a clear view of Big Ben and the fireworks from Parliament Square in London on New Year's Eve. I ventured alone from South Kensington, leaving all family wheezing, sniffling and either watching their hotel TVs or retiring early with an assortment of mild ailments. But with remarkably mild weather, I found myself seated on a ledge next to a group of young Germans who thought it was very funny to call their friends on cell phones and group sing “Feliz Navidad” to each. Everyone was very mellow, despite the huge crush of humanity that was packed like minnows in the narrow stretch between Parliament and Trafalgar Square. The number was estimated at 150,000. Lingering at a Charing Cross Road pub until the crowd thinned out somewhat, there was still no way to get a cab out of there. A bobby was helpful.

“If you ask me, I’d take one of those things (pointing to a touristy bike-driven rickshaw) out to the Marble Arches and hail a cab there,” he offered. The New Year’s Eve rickshaw ride proved pricey, but was a memorable experience. The biker pulling me being a young computer science student from Poland, he zigged-zagged like a NASCAR driver through the clogged traffic on Oxford Street and kept looking back to talk to me as my eyes widened at the sight of what was approaching. I got to my hotel fine.

Earlier on New Year’s Eve, the incomparable Eileen Levy and I had the “Best Martini in the World” served up by Antonio in the lobby bar at the Dukes Hotel on St. James Square. I was provided this valuable tip by a friendly United Airlines ticket clerk at Dulles Airport, who subsequently took extraordinary measures to get me on my flight (given I was very late). He had written the info down from another passenger in a notebook he kept in his coat pocket, but his info had it that the bartender was named Gilberto, same as he. Given this clerk’s kindness, I felt I owed it to him to seek out the “World’s Best Martini” in London with Eileen in tow. Antonio said Gilberto had retired two years earlier, but that he was his protégé and promised that he still served “The Best Martini in the World.” He rolled up a cart with two iced martini glasses, a vial of vermouth, Bombay Sapphire gin and two lemons. With the appropriate panache, he dashed tiny amounts of vermouth in each glass, and carefully filled each to the brim with the gin. Then he carved one peel off each lemon, and twisted each peel with a dramatic flair accompanied by audible grunt, rolled it around the rim and dropped it in. One peel per lemon. What really made it the “Best Martini” was Antonio’s offer, after being charmed by Eileen, of a free refill for each of us, this time with just the gin.

Nicholas F. Benton

The first thing I notice — perhaps “noticed” is a bit too subtle — the first thing I am assaulted with when I walked onto Broad Street in the City of Falls Church around 9 p.m., is an unusual rendition of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” from an enthusiastic participant in a brown jacket and jeans on the massive karaoke stage that bisected the City’s main thoroughfare. I can’t tell how old she is, although on this night we all get to be kids again, right?

I return time and again to take photos during the night and listen as celebrants give startlingly innovative renditions of such classics as “Macho Man,” “Lean Back,” and of course, the piece de’ resistance, “Baby Got Back.” All a lot of fun.

I admit that I didn’t do my homework before showing up on Friday night. I hadn’t charted all the events and prepared my itinerary on how to make sure that I made it to every performance and attraction. Instead, I showed up like most others, walking the street — sometimes with, sometimes against the tide of pedestrian traffic, many with glowing sticks and funny hats — with a copy of last week’s News-Press in my hand, waiting for something to catch my attention.

I think it is a testament to this City that the venues with the largest crowds required involvement and interaction by the attendees — the karaoke stage and the rock wall. Personally, I have never understood the appeal of cramming into Times Square in New York to watch the ball drop, standing passively by as another second is immortalized by an illuminated mechanical sphere. It’s always left me thinking, “So now what?”

But watching kids struggle to reach the top of that wall, striving for that bell, and then gently rappelling down, strikes me as a more appropriate metaphor for taking on a new year, as we all strap on our own gear and prepare for scaling our personal walls in 2005. Though I also wonder, “What if it had been 30 degrees and raining?” Either brilliant planning, or fortune smiling.

By happy accident I end up near Weight Watchers during Captain Token’s second magical performance, and decide to drop in. I love magic shows, although not the type you see on TV, where magicians make entire civilizations disappear and then pull them out of a hat wrapped in silk. There’s too much glitter, too much self aggrandizement by the magician, who usually looks like he’s stepped off the pages of some magazine advertisement. I prefer the magicians like Token, who seem to take a genuine delight in making kids gasp as they magically repair a rope cut in two. Like every child in the room, I don’t know how he did it, and I don’t want to know. Just make things disappear, that’s enough for me. If only life were so simple.

Darien Bates

New Year’s Eve has always been the time to live it up, party like there’s no tomorrow and then, upon waking up the following evening, vow never to do it again.

That is until next year. That’s pretty much how each of my last six or so New Year’s have gone, and while I’ve no doubt had a blast each time (I have to assume, because my memory has always been a little hazy during the Dec. 31-Jan. 1 crossover), I decided that this year, I was going to keep it local, and stay in Falls Church for the first time since high school.

My destination of choice was the Broad Street Grill — a cross between the bar Cheers and a George Mason High School class reunion. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. In fact, the Grill has quickly become a favorite of mine because of its casual, familiar and affordable atmosphere, the perfect antithesis of past New Years filled with flashy clothes, big bankrolls and swarms of anonymous people. We got to the Grill about 8:30 p.m., there was nothing too exciting going on yet— people were finishing up their meals, no doubt preparing for the onslaught of libations that would follow. Gradually, the place filled up, and our group at the end of the bar was soon pushing double digits. We were, without a doubt, “rolling deep.”

Our cluster was a mixed crowd, consisting of friends from the high school years, friends made through work and recreation, and, what’s becoming an alarming trend, significant others.

I spent New Year’s Eve three years ago matching college friends shot-for-shot leading up to midnight. Fortunately, I brought a camera and am able to remember my New Year through pictures.

Fast-forward to this year, where we spent the night sharing stories from back in the day, shooting pool, and just having fun enjoying each other’s company. In fact, the craziest point of the evening was when I decided to switch from a Bud Light to a Bud for a round. We were a happy bunch; though decidedly low-key compared to the raucous crew that has surrounded me in years past.

We counted down to the New Year with Regis on the TV and hugged and kissed and cheered when the ball dropped. One of the night’s highlights was when my buddy Matt, sitting alone by himself, was paired up with another New Year’s Eve loaner so they could share a kiss at midnight. Later, she revealed she had a boyfriend who was out of the country. Tough luck, Matt.

All-in-all, the night was a blast, Broad Street Grill-style. It was great spending time ringing in the New Year in Falls Church with friends, all the time with a relatively clear head.

So, “Happy New Year” F.C., I hope you made some fond memories that will stay with you for years to come. But, if you decided to over do it and left your camera at home, well, there’s always next year.

Jody Fellows

The Downtown Countdown New Year’s Eve party, hosted by local rock radio station DC101, is a lot like Alice’s rabbit hole — things don’t get truly interesting until you reach the bottom.

Walking into the 12-story atrium lobby of the Grand Hyatt Hotel in downtown DC, you get an impression of grandeur, implied by the cathedral ceiling, lush greenery and large, recessed fountain. But so far there are few signs of the overdone New Year’s glitz and extravagance you might expect. After guests pick up their $100-plus regular or $200-plus VIP tickets and move further into the party, it becomes evident that the focus is on entertainment and not embellishments.

Before you’ve gone too far, it’s clear where the ever-popular karaoke is found. The distinctly unpolished sounds of amateur singing can be heard coming from the lobby café, but there is little else on this level that says “party!” Venturing deeper into the fray via escalator, however, reveals more activity. A sports bar greets patrons descending to the second level, but instead of looking the part of New Year’s celebration destination, it looks like…a sports bar. The not-so-crowded bar seems to be more of an escape for the party-weary and diehard football fans of 2004.

The mood in a ballroom down the hall is decidedly more festive. Here, partiers are dancing to hip-hop tracks provided by local radio DJs. Although it sounds like one of DC’s lavish mega-nightclubs, it looks nothing like one—there is little decoration, beyond high-quality hotel wallpaper. No one seems to mind.

It’s only after hopping on another downward escalator, to the deepest reaches of the Grand Hyatt, that you find the real reasons for being here—celebrities, rock bands and a buffet.

Sandy and Kevin of NBC’s “The Apprentice 2” fame are being chatted up in a corner by guests. Around another corner is a VIP room for those who were willing to pony up big money. The main event, however, is in a large ballroom, where DC-native eclectic-rock band Lloyd Dobler Effect is doing its thing. Members of Pat McGee Band, a Virginia-based pop-rock band performing later, move through the crowd with little fanfare. There are several buffet tables, offering salads, rolls and roast turkey carved on the spot, choices that seem awkward for people milling, not sitting. As food and drink were included in the ticket price, plenty of people are loading up plates, and many are eating while in line for a cocktail or beer.

And wait they will, as the number of bartenders seems far too small. The lines for refreshment actually work, however; you don’t have to worry about bigger people shoving in front of you or try in vain to catch a bartender’s eye, which isn’t something you can say for many DC bars on an average Saturday night, let alone New Year’s Eve.

The dress code, deemed “creative black tie, optional,” was supposed to suggest MTV’s Video Music Awards, according to Lindy, the event’s promotion company. With the exception of a few standouts sporting plaid pants, puffy shirts, or a T-shirt/jacket combination, however, most of the men in attendance are playing it straight in suits and the occasional tux. Many women saw this as a chance to wear their favorite cocktail dress. Several other women took Lindy at its word and are dressed as the best Britneys they can be.

Despite the maturity of the refreshments and attire, however, you can’t escape the feeling you’ve stepped into a grown-up prom. There is plenty of looking but seemingly little flirting. Couples and groups of people who apparently arrived together are sticking together. During Lloyd Dobler Effect’s set, most on the dance floor are solitary women — the crowd is overwhelmingly female. But people are having fun, you don’t have to shove through crowds to get anywhere, and the air isn’t becoming a cigarette-smoke sauna.

After the band finishes, the crowd raps and dances along to the parental-advisory hip-hop being played to fill time. The popularity of the music, coupled with the youthfulness of the revelers, suggests to you that most here, though certainly not in high school, are on the earlier end of the 21-to-30 demographic, but there were exceptions.

However fun your real prom was, it’s unlikely that the entertainment was as good as Pat McGee Band. Despite partiers’ earlier enthusiasm for rapping and rump-shaking, the zeal for McGee and Co.’s energetic ballad rock is much greater. The bass player, appropriately, is even wearing a retro prom jacket.

There are streamers, the requisite rock-band spotlights in blue and orange and red, and a net full of balloons set to drop at midnight. Other than that, however, things are simple, which sets this event apart from so many of the fussy gatherings happening tonight in DC. Sure, it’s glamorous, it’s expensive, and it’s “creative black tie, optional.” But it’s also a comfortable, good time.

David Hebert and Amy Esbenshade

I usually feel awkward when I’m single on New Years. For some reason, New Years as a bachelor always carries that vain hope of executing some impossible plan to sweep a ridiculously gorgeous woman, such as Jennifer Garner, off her feet just in time for a midnight kiss. But as is usually the case, and again holds true tonight, most women … and Garner … are taken, and impossible plans remain exactly that.

In the past I’ve circumvented this annual dilemma by reuniting with my closest high school friends in Boston. But this year I’m in D.C. serving as the archetypal, though charming, third wheel to my married friends Dave and Amy. On top of that, we’re at a party in Northwest D.C. where I know not a soul except my college friends Bryan and Rebecca, a pair who comprise the perfect couple … ever. I tell myself again I should feel awkward.

But as 2004 begins its terminal descent to midnight, I don’t feel awkward at all. I wonder why.

“Champagne?” Mike, one of the hosts, asks.

It’s not the answer to my questions, but I accept anyway, though I’m embarrassed when Mike’s friend joins us in the living room after all the champagne has been handed out. But without a gripe he handles the situation, cracking open a Miller High Life and pouring it into a plastic flute.

“The Champagne of beers,” he says smiling as he turns to me.

The situation is strangely tight knit. With the exception of Bryan and Rebecca, I met everyone for the first time 30 minutes ago. But still they’re looking out for my friends and me as though we’re the oldest and closest of acquaintances. It’s something I’m very aware of and more than a little touched by. I don’t normally find myself in the “Hallmark” mode of thought, but it’s New Years and this stuff happens on New Years.

The numbers tick down and we welcome the New Year with warm embraces, though no kiss from Jen Garner. As the excitement of the moment winds down I make my way to the refreshment table in the back of the room to grab a handful of pretzels. Next to the snack dish I see a bowl of money. Thinking the tip bowl is to help pay for the party, I reach for my wallet. But then I look closer to read the attached paper sign: “Tsunami Relief Aid.”

Suddenly I don’t find it hard to believe we’ve been welcomed so warmly. Suddenly drinking High Life instead of champagne doesn’t seem like a sacrifice at all. On the most festive night of the year, while celebration is the theme of the evening, our hosts and the others there have consciously turned their thoughts towards others — others a half a world a way with no homes, more or less across the Potomac with no champagne.

As I return to the group, my friends and I are welcomed into a Guys vs. Girls game of Taboo, even though our participation makes the teams uneven.

“That’s cool,” Bryan says. “You and Dave can count as one person and be Uber Dude.”

We might bear the superlative title, but there’s nothing Uber about our contribution to the game. But still the others don’t mind, even in the heated battle of the sexes.

Even with my friends in Boston I’ve never felt more comfortable than I do now. Ironically, it wasn’t much. It wasn’t a grand or elaborate gesture on the part of the others. It was nothing more than a nod and a smile or a conversation about my work. It was nothing more than a bowl full of singles on the snack table. But those little gestures of kindness let me know I was in good company. And on a night like New Years, there isn’t one place I’d rather be. Unless Jennifer Garner finally comes around.

Mike Hume