Happy New Year! (without Dick Clark)

No, we did not go to Times Square for New Year's Eve.
We also didn't see the Rockettes, or go skating at Rockefeller Center. Those are the TV notions of New York that tourists are drawn to like moths to a flame, but not the way locals do it.

Conversation with an NYPD officer in front of the Stock Exchange this week:
Cop: Where you guys from?
Me: Michigan
Cop: What are you doing for New Year's? You going to Times Square?
Me: Oh good Lord no.
Cop: Good. It's a madhouse.
Me: What do real New Yorkers do for New Year's?
Cop 2, older: Stay home.

We couldn't quite bring ourselves to rent movies on our first New Year's Eve in the city, but we did brush aside the $150/person affairs in favor of something closer to our hearts.

We started with Lombardi's Pizza, where we strolled in and immediately got a seat at what is purportedly the first pizzeria in America. Thankfully, getting featured on Ellen this week didn't bring the crowds decending.













We hoped to get dessert at Rice to Riches, but they closed early so we were thwarted. We wandered Little Italy in search of a dessert place/ coffee shop and nothing called to us, so we took the subway to the West Village.
There we went to a coffee shop John liked called Cafe Esperanto, but I really didn't like the vibe -- outside it was frat party-ish, and inside, it seemed intentionally, affectedly nerdish. I mean, really, at 11 on New Year's Eve in the Village, and you're sipping herbal tea working on your laptop in a coffee shop?


We decided to call it a night and head home, and on the subway, as a really boisterous group of buppies laughed and squealed, it dawned on me that we'd be able to see the Central Park fireworks from our balcony. We got home shortly before midnight and watched about half an hour's worth of great fireworks, alternating between being outside to hear the boom! and the honking and the yelling and scurrying inside to warm up.




Suffiently re-energized, we ventured back out into 2006.
First stop: buying a beer for Ricky, the solitary guy stuck working the front desk at our doorman building. You'd have thought we brought him a bottle of Dom. He hopped up to shake John's hand and say thanks.
Next stop: the Auction House, where the crowd seemed a mix of people coming back to their neighborhood for the night and young people still very much on the bar hop. We dubbed our favorite girl Butterfly. I think you'll see why.




The Auction House is usually a quiet, candlelit, mellow place, but last night it was louder than usual, with Coldplay on pretty loud. It seemed right for the night, and it gave me and Butterfly a chance to dance without going to a $50 a pop club.











This is me with the worst French martini ever, but John likes the photo so this is for him.



We stayed out late walking around our neighborhood and just observing as all the various kinds of people -- young professionals, older guys in tuxes -- called it a night.

Our first New Year in New York. I hope it's the first of many.