[My second-week anniversary in Weymouth today. Wow,
I CAN”T believe it has only been TWO weeks – seems like months! Wow, six months in England; I can't believe it – it IS months! Okay, you can
go ahead and feel just a little bit sorry for me, as my life is so disjointed –
moving from room to room, my stuff scattered here and there and all stacked up
– but just a little!]
This day was, oh, so much more restful than
Christmas – thankfully! Maybe because a major part of the celebration of New Year's is mostly a single
evening, whereas Christmas is one big, LONG day. Whatever the difference may be
– whew! It was great fun having Loraine’s two brothers and their partners (one
officially married – one not) and her sister and husband with us for the last couple
of days. They are all particularly good-natured and a lot of fun! Wish I could
have spent more time with them – their joking, witty natures are very enjoyable
to be around.
As many of Loraine’s children had vacated to spend
the rest of the week with their dad, plenty of extra hands were needed. Had a
little better look around at the various guest rooms – the second and third
floors anyway – as Loraine asked me to make sure the occupied rooms had been
adequately attended to (refreshed). Saw what is unofficially referred to as the
‘honeymoon suite’ – so called because it contains the one four-poster bed. (It’s
worth mentioned that, as they’ve been banned by a EU directive, the ONLY light
bulbs available here in England are that new-fangled variety, unlike in America
where the concept is still in the early stages of taking hold – kind of as an alternative
to the traditional, incandescent bulb.)
After I had helped serve dinner, and then set up
the dining room for service the next morning, I went up to my room, mostly to
spend the evening, but kept coming down – and then back up – to do a variety of
things, (you know, getting sorted), as well as to check out what was taking
place as the evening progressed. On one of these forays (to the kitchen this
time) I thought I caught sight of Loraine’s sons in orange jumpsuits. I asked
one of the servers, what’s that all about? It seems that in some places in
England on New Year’s Eve – not everywhere, but, yes, in Weymouth, to be sure –
some young people get dressed up, almost as if it were Halloween. Another time
when I came downstairs to see how the buffet was going (a lovely large spread,
just like on Christmas – served at 10pm) I heard music playing loudly in the
bar area, along with a lot of clapping and hurrahing. When I poked my head in, there
were some young men singing bad Karaoke to the song, ‘YMCA.’ They were all dressed
in fatigues with toy guns and war paint on their faces. (The orange suits had
been representative of convict clothing. Is there a pattern going on here? Shall
we say, ‘bad boys reign?!’) As I only entered the scene in the middle of what
was going on, I have no idea who they were or how they come to be with us this
particular evening. They could just have been walking by and, hearing a party
going on, stuck their head in and Loraine had invited them in to entertain the
troops. Definitely seems like something she would do!
On another occasion I had come down into the
lounge, where the router is located, so I could have access to the internet, as
I had had no wifi in my room for the last 24 hours – and it was KILLING me! (Talk
about differences in pronunciation, as I had been trying to describe my lack of
internet problems today, I found that just as what we call route is said ‘root’
here, it is the same for this little black box with flashing green lights. So
when I had said it the American way, Loraine had no idea what I was talking
about.) Anyway I was ‘soaking’ up the internet there in the lounge, when
suddenly the word came, ‘Loraine needs you – quick!’ Several of us had to hurry downstairs and
prepare the glasses of champagne, and then get them back upstairs before the start
of the big countdown . . . and that is how it happened that I got corralled . .
.
The dance floor was festooned with streamers and sparkling confetti, the psychedelic dance lights were flashing. The party goers in the room had been singing along –to the encouragement of the night’s performer. As the countdown approached, the glasses were passed around (not to be outdone, some of us had schloer) and the large screen television was flipped to the annual UK New Year’s celebration along the Thames – just below Big Ben and the London Eye, aka the Millennium Eye, the massive, 135 metres tall, 120 metre diameter, giant Ferris wheel situated on the banks of the river. There was a whole regimen of New Year’s traditions – first we all got on our feet to participate in counting down from 10, all according to Greenwich Mean Time – 10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1! Happy New Year! (Plenty of kissing, hugging and wishing others a happy year ahead, but nobody shouted out those words, like we do, it came to me later – not their tradition, I guess.) Instead we formed a wide circle, crossed arms with our neighbors and began to sing, ‘Should Old Acquaintance be Forgot . . . , you know, Auld Lang Syne, translated as ‘times long past.’ There was a definite tried and true formula to our celebrating, I quickly came to see. Sang that song way too many times, bobbing our hands to the rhythm, all whilst sipping and glad-handing. Several men kissed me on the cheek, and I did my fair share of hugging – men AND women, as GMT declared the hour that began the new year. And then, the REAL fun started!
Next thing I knew the Conga* was being played on
the sound system - not sure if it was blaring out from the
television or if the DJ guy had put it on because he knows that’s what’s supposed
to come next in the sequence. Before I knew what was happening, an older woman had
grabbed me from behind by the waist and gave me a 1-2-3-push forward. That pairing
lasted for a minute or so, until Loraine, my friend and definitive party
animal, latched me onto the back of her. (She was up to NO good!) Around and
around we cavorted, adding people as we went. Next thing you knew we were
headed out the door of the room, down the hallway, and THEN through the front
door and down the steps – onto the front walk. Down we danced, for 50 meters or
so, and then laughing and joking, turned around and came back – conga-ing all
the while. Loraine looked back at the line, which was much shorter than she had
hoped, and teasingly said, ‘you’re a sorry looking bunch,’ as she explained that
her vision had been to cross the street and stop traffic – not much at that
hour of the morning anyway– with the lot of us!
*[The Conga is a dance that has been around for a
good long time – in fact, grandma would have danced the Conga! It is said to
have been brought from Africa by slaves to Cuba and the sugar plantations of
the West Indies. The term ‘conga’ is Spanish for Congolese woman – a woman from
the Congo. During the Machado dictatorship in Cuba, peasants were forbidden to
dance the Conga because rival groups would work themselves to high excitement
and explode into street fighting. At one
point, Colonel Batista, a subsequent leader, relaxed the rules somewhat,
permitting Congas during election time, while a police permit was required for
public dancing of the Conga at all other times. From there it drifted to Paris,
and eventually to New York, before spreading across the country – having
already taken the rest of the world by storm first!
The basic steps are (left) 1-2-3-kick (or bump)
then repeat with the opposite foot. Originally a band member wearing a drum and
beating out a rhythm would venture onto the dance floor. He would start
zig-zagging around the floor and tables, playing his drum, and the dancers
would start following behind, doing the dance like a slithering snake. All the
while the line grows and the drum beats intensify and the music gets louder and
louder, until suddenly the drum just stops being played. Bam! it’s over – no
fancy ending.]
Hadn't intended to be a part of this insanity, but
ended up getting roped in. Can’t say that I was sorry - it was a crazy moment in
time! A bunch of old fuddy-duddies, remembering what it was like to be young.
It was great - I fit right in! I say – NEVER, never get old!
Photos_
1- New Year’s revelry, old-folk style (prior to
the countdown)
2- Halloween night in Weymouth – December 31, 2012
3- 1950s (baby honey bee just starting out)
4- the proverbial question (Is this telling – could I not resist the Conga line?!)
5- midnight buffet (Loraine’s niece and nephew and
friends)
