Silvester without a Magic Moment – a very personal year’s end
Prologue – When a year ends in jet lag
Not enough that a long transatlantic flight is behind us—Christmas has already packed up and gone, too.
And here we are now: once again in California. New Year’s Eve in Los Angeles.
I can’t quite believe it yet. Everyone says it, but the question remains:
Where did this year go? These can’t possibly have been 365 days.
We celebrate New Year’s Eve. Of course.
But we celebrate it differently: asleep, grateful, warmly tucked in—on an Airbnb bed that, through the haze of jet lag, feels like an invitation to peace.
Sometimes a turn of the year needs only a small sign—and a hand
holding it.
When the spark doesn’t jump at midnight
I like days that fall out of routine. When lucky-charm stands suddenly appear, when supermarkets stack delicacies like a holiday dare,
when champagne pyramids wobble and shop windows glitter as if they have stage fright.
Then something festive hangs in the air—and even I can’t entirely resist it.
And still: I can’t bring myself to cheer for my clock.
That famous moment—exactly midnight—is, on closer inspection, a wandering instant.
When we celebrate, others are already asleep; elsewhere the new year hasn’t even put its shoes on yet.
The magic of 12:00 is not a fixed point—it’s a moving target.
For me, that spark doesn’t jump on command.
Resolutions? No. Decisions.
One more confession: I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions.
If you want to change something, you begin the moment the desire shows up.
Not on January 1. Not after the fireworks.
The minute you need a date, the change is already wobbling.
The best moment for growth is always: now.
Fireworks—and the quiet protest of my good sense
About money that quite literally goes up in smoke, about animals trembling under sofas, about hospitals and firefighters performing the impossible that night—I won’t even start.
I like an organized firework: well thought out, carefully choreographed, for a few minutes a small spectacle – colorful, shimmering, like little stars briefly loosening themselves from the sky before fading away again.
But that doesn’t mean every Tom, Dick, and Harry needs to shroud the neighborhood in fear and the smell of fireworks.
Three decades of New Year’s Eve – a journey through glitter and yawns
We’ve kept searching for it: the ultimate New Year’s Eve kick.
We rarely found it—and when we did, it was mostly between the lines.
Las Vegas: shimmer and light. By midnight we were already in bed.
New York: crowds, packed streets. Before the legendary ball dropped, we fought our way back to the hotel.
Québec, Château Frontenac: dinner, dancing in historic halls—and yes, we made it.
Proud as marathon runners.
Jamaica, the three of us: while my daughter and I sang “Feliz Navidad” with the live band, Reinhold suddenly announced—solemnly—that our last name must point to “Landvögte.” Impoverished nobility.
We tried, briefly, to regain composure—then laughed until we cried.
Unforgettable. And yes: that New Year’s Eve, we stayed awake.
Florida, Cape Coral: family gathering with pool and grill. Warm, relaxed, unspectacularly lovely.
Shortly after midnight we were all in bed—synchronized, as if on a secret signal.
Malibu: an Airbnb in the Santa Monica Mountains with a view—priceless. An evening for three.
Good food, a glass of Chardonnay. The first yawned—we fluffed up the beds.
Midnight? A distant rumor.
Vienna, Hotel Sacher: chic. Expensive. And—how do you put it politely?—wildly overrated.
St. Petersburg, Catherine Palace: a New Year’s Eve like a promise.
A private tour through the Amber Room—so quiet you almost forgot to breathe.
The announced fireworks never happened.
The Russian winter sometimes falls silent more majestically than any rocket.
Rügen, Binz: a wellness hotel, the full package. We planned to eat later—so the evening wouldn’t stretch on too long.
A miscalculation.
A call: they were waiting for us. Every eye in the restaurant on us.
After dinner: a live band, dancing, two rounds of discofox.
Well before midnight, we were back in our hotel room.
We watched the fireworks on television—from the bed.
And then all those New Year’s Eve dinners.
Those decadent prices – just because the number on the calendar changes?
The super-disaster: raclette and “lead pouring”
I’ll say no more.
If you love it—please, carry on. We don’t belong to that club anymore.
We’ve grown older.
And we love our couple’s New Year’s Eve.
A walk by the sea. “Dinner for One“ – that old New Year’s Eve sketch on television. A good meal. And going to sleep when we are tired – not when the clock demands it.
It’s astonishingly freeing not to dance to other people’s expectations anymore.
Los Angeles – a New Year’s Eve that suits us
This year we’re celebrating with part of the family.
Good food, honest conversations, laughter—and deep gratitude that we’re together.
And then jet lag shows up anyway. Gentle, but firm.
It’s our personal countdown.
Epilogue – Good night, old year
Good night, old year.
You were fast, you were wild, you were unpredictable.
To the new year—no one knows what it will bring.
I wish for health, happiness, and contentment.
Everything else is whipped cream on top.
Because what truly matters has never been fully in our hands.
On wanderlust-knows-no-age.com
she writes about travels, memories, and the life in between—poetic, honest, and always with a wink.
By her side: Reinhold—tireless navigator, impatient voice of calm, and secret guardian of the picnic basket.