240 Days In - A New Year

My mother asks me (via Skype), “is New Year’s Eve as much of a big deal in California as it is here?”

Internally I laugh; poor, sweet, ageing mum.

Externally I say “New Year is a big deal everywhere, isn’t it?” My sister, who is silently reading behind my mother, concurs. Clearly neither of us have spent New Year’s Eve in Balboa.

Balboa, as I understand it, is the swanky part of Newport. Newport, as those who have watched The OC know, is the swanky part of Orange County. And Orange County, it is commonly agreed, is the swanky commuter-ville outside of LA.

Balboa has a peninsula complete with beach with surf-able waves, and peer with diner at the end of it; it also has an exclusive island, where stupidly rich people buy ridiculously large holiday houses on the water so they can park their ludicrously oversized yachts next to them.

The high street on (as some trendy locals call it) Bal Isle has quaint boutique shops and lovely restaurants; the peninsula has trendy but well decked out eateries and bars.

Chris and I have agreed to see in the new year with friends who are also legal immigrants. They live in a spacious flat with a view of Balboa. A few weeks before the big night, we discuss the possibility of booking a fire pit on the beach, but the hoards of people seen out on Halloween and July the 4th lead us to conclude that we have left it too late.

So, not wanting to pay to get into a bar, or to spend the whole night squeezed into a corner, having to shout over raucous noise, we start the jollities in their flat and decide to wander into Balboa at about 11 to soak up the atmosphere.

Come 10.30, wine soaked and fully fed, we dress up in scarves and gloves, as if in England, and head off with plastic cups and a bottle of Don Perignon.

The walk to the island is eerily quiet and once over the bridge there is a distinct lack of people and noise. In one “Irish pub” we see a live band calmly serenading a completely seated audience. Confused we head for the ferry that will take us over to the peninsula and the promise of life. But unlike the 31st October there is no queue of cars waiting for the three-car boat.

On the way across a lone party-boat chugs past us; music is playing loudly, but on closer inspection there seem to be about ten people onboard. A lady standing next to us says “it is really dead, it seems to get quieter every year. I think it is because of the drink driving laws”.

And, as we had begun to fear, the peninsula is just as dead as the island. But we keep on, stubbornly believing that the beach will surprise us with numerous parties around numerous fires.

It does not.

There is one party around one fire, and the drunken teenagers seem an omen that pushes us towards an nearby pub that is, miraculously, open. The people on the street outside create a false impression that the place is full, but at least it means we get a table.

Chris goes all out and, donning a party hat, orders a double sized bottle of Corona and the world’s most disgusting chicken wings.

On the way home we pass the Irish pub, now dark and empty. It is 12.30.

Back in the flat, we pop the champagne and settle in for a drunken game of Snapdragon.