So it's over.

We can stop twirling the noisemakers, recycle the party hats, and shoo-out those bibulous night owls who refuse to stop their cacophonous recital of Auld Lang Syne. Like the song says, the time has past.

And what a strange time it was.

In the past few years, partygoers prepared in excited anticipation for what was to be the best excuse for a party yet; religious fundamentalists decked themselves in the discarded wardrobes of some Charlton Heston movie and traveled to Jerusalem to await the Second Coming; and families from miles around converted their basements into their own private Price Clubs as they prepared for the glitch to end all computer glitches.

But, like the Cold War, it passed without event: some people partied, some fireworks were heard, and another president implicitly recognized his role in "these great events."

As pundits offered their now confident I-told-you-sos, the millennium went out with the whimper of a mayor in Seattle who incredulously wondered why the Space Needle didn't go up like a bottle rocket. The promised mayhem turned out to be surprisingly mundane and the world's psychos failed to show up--they probably couldn't get away from the set of an upcoming James Bond film.

But before we come down from all the excitement and suburbanites prepare for their garage/case-lot sales, there's still time to sit back and enjoy the tale of two adventurous travelers and a New Years that was more than a bit off the beaten trail.

In the years leading up to the great event, I, like many others, put very little time or energy into the upcoming end of-the-millennium celebrations--contrary to much of the hype and hoopla being presented by the many news outlets. Amid the bustle and grind of a busy workload at school, such concerns were merely fleeting conversational topics during the customary coffee break or the under-appreciated trip to a local pub. Who has time for such trivialities when a future career is beckoning?

But before the ink was dry on my last term paper visions of sugar plumbs were dancing in my head and considerations as to where I would get inebriated for New Year's suddenly became important.

As the days past and Christmas quickly approached, ideas concerning how I might celebrate my New Year's were hard to come by--my 20-something friends were obviously experiencing the obligatory ennui that evolves from too much education and not enough career opportunities.

Then, when almost all hope was gone, one of my friends, Dave (aka "Crazy" Dave), made an exciting suggestion.

"Let's drive south," he propositioned.

While most of my friends kindly ignored the idea--as is the customary protocol in addressing many of Dave's goofball ideas--I was intrigued by the suggestion. The idea of hopping into a car and taking a road trip through the States seemed exciting and almost beatnik-cool.

For the next few days, I spent much of my idle time swimming the Internet--I still haven't learned how to surf--to see if I could find anything that might pique my interest. Apart from the ubiquitous "event canceled due to lack of funding" or a concert with the Mike-Love-fronted group of geriatrics euphemistically referred to as The Beach Boys, the Internet proved to be unhelpful in determining a destination.

Then it hit me.

Why did we need a definite destination? Why not let fate take its course?

The idea of jumping into my Honda Civic and racing towards destination unknown sent chills down my spine. It was almost too overwhelming to comprehend the incalculable freedom we would enjoy--it sure beat the perennial family trip to Lake Anywhere.

Where would we be on New Years? Would we be in Las Vegas, San Francisco, Los Angeles, or Tijuana? Would we be stranded in the middle of nowhere watching airplanes crash into the dusty environs of some uninhabited area in the desert--far away from any media outlets wondering whether the Y2K juggernaut had sent civilization into an every-person-for-themselves frenzy?

I presented my idea to Dave and he approved without question. We would travel by intuition. We agreed that there would be no itinerary. Our trip would not be mapped out. We would be the victims of vicissitude.

Excited as we were, we decided we'd leave as soon as possible. On Christmas Day, after the annual festivities were completed and the still warm carcass of the recently consumed turkey lay on the dinning room table, I quickly packed my car and prepared for my trip. While my family, this now listless lump of couch-ridden flesh who were apparently feeling the effects of their tryptophan-filled feast, were struggling valiantly to keep their eyelids open as they watched some wholesome entertainment on the idiot box, I, who had cunningly steered clear of the turkey and its terrible toxin, was ready for the long drive ahead. As I accepted their languorous hand waves, I bid my family farewell and snuck out the front door--feeling very much like the conniving narrator in a Nabokov novel.

After collecting my traveling companion, I quickly patted the pocket of my cargo pants to confirm that my passport was tucked safely within--knowing full well that I would need something by which to distinguish myself from the hordes of foreign terrorists migrating to America--and raced towards the U.S. border--that impervious bastion that protects the American empire from its lowly neighbour to the north.

Surprisingly, the border guard and the convivial employee who occupied the booth at the duty free shop were cordial hosts and offered little resistance. In a matter of minutes, we had crossed the 49th parallel with two full bottles of vodka and an endless amount of expectation--obviously ignorant to the monotony of McDonald's dinners and gas station fill-ups that lay ahead.

Before long, Dave opted out of the consciousness game and reclined his seat as he bid me adieu--another victim of the notorious tryptophan pandemic--and I was left alone with my soon-to-be-tiresome array of CDs and a handful of thoughts.

As the car raced down the highway and passed the bright lights of Seattle and Portland, I began to wonder where it was we were going--for some strange reason we hadn't discussed it before Dave nodded off.

Whether it was the lingering effects of having just completed The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test or some adolescent appreciation for the '60s, San Francisco seemed to be beckoning me forward. In the end, it seemed I was ill prepared to counteract its magnetic attraction. The piper had played his tune and I hypnotically followed.

But before we could make our way to the city by the bay, I needed to get some sleep. Like an angelic apparition, my needs were satisfied by a reflecting road sign: "Rest Area Next Exit."

Ah, the rest area. The place where campers and cargo containers congregate. It is the safe zone between the much-maligned big city and the small town where maniacal teenagers and paramilitary groups convene. An oasis for the road-weary traveler and our lodging for the night.

After the early morning sun interrupted my short sleep, I performed some quick calisthenics--listening to my back as it creaked for a chiropractor--before I hopped in the car and headed for California. Opting for the scenic route, to avoid the mind-numbing monotony of the I-5, I steered the car towards the California coast highway. As the hot sun penetrated the car windows and the car caressed the curving, cliff-side roads, I reveled in the beauty of this seascape drive while carefully concentrating on the road so as not to propel my car off a cliff and onto the rocks below.

As the road curved towards San Francisco, I stopped at every shoulder to take a picture of this incredible scenery that, before this moment, I thought only existed in Roadrunner cartoons or in car advertisements that fill the commercial breaks of any sporting event.

With evening approaching and our eyes growing heavy, we decided it was time to park the car. Turning onto a dirt road that ran adjacent to the highway, we found ourselves perched atop a cliff with the crashing waves of the Pacific Ocean far below. Naively ignoring the climatic phenomenon known as condensation, we pitched the tent and retired for the night.

In the morning we awoke to the sound of a dog's sniffing nose brushing lightly against the canvass of our modest abode. As I opened my eyes, I noticed some globular beads of water dripping from the tent roof. Removing myself from my, now sopping, sleeping bag, I opened the tent door to find a beautiful sunrise and the dog's owner inquisitively staring at me. Before long, we packed our belongings and hopped in the car to make the short drive to San Francisco.

As the arches of the Golden Gate Bridge rose above the horizon, I heard the sound of my hastening heartbeat. I was finally here: the city whose scenery enkindled my passion for Hitchcock movies; the birthplace of Rice-a-Roni; and the home of the ludicrously steep, rolling hills off of which Karl Malden's and Michael Douglas's police cars once flew.

Apart from the anachronistic nouveau hippies who lined the streets of Haight Ashbury in their tie-dyed T-shirts--an eyesore for any casual commuter--San Francisco had more than lived up to my outrageous expectations. As the sun set on this lovely city, I finally understood why Tony Bennett left his heart here.

With San Francisco behind us and four days remaining until New Year's, we needed to select a new destination. Consulting a map of California and Nevada, which Dave had fortunately brought with him, we debated our options.

While I flirted with the idea of traveling to Los Angeles to visit Hollywood and Dave eyed Tijuana lustfully, we quickly nixed both suggestions after reasoning that on New Year's Los Angeles would go up like a matchbook--citing the Rodney King riots as suitable proof--and dreading the return trip that would result from a jaunt into Mexico. In the end, we set our sights to the east and decided to travel through Lake Tahoe into Reno.

Like the drive along the California coast, the drive to Lake Tahoe was spectacular. However, whether it was because we were tired of sightseeing or we were eagerly awaiting our opportunity to earn our tuition at the gambling tables, we rushed through the mountains--stopping momentarily in Lake Tahoe, a quaint little ski village that was conspicuously in want of snow--and arrived in Reno by mid-afternoon.

How does one describe the biggest little city in the world?

Reno is Nevada's geriatric ward where retired gamblers spend their remaining days frustrated that their grandchildren in Las Vegas never visit. Other than gambling, there's not much to do. However, at $15 per night, accommodations in Reno are unbelievably economical--if gambling debts are left out of the calculation--and thus we decided to stay three nights.

While it was both entertaining and interesting, an account of our visit to Reno could be easily summed up in the simple words of a brief postcard: gambled lots, drank lots, and stuffed ourselves with buffet dinners that would satisfy any corpulent customer.

With Reno behind us and two days remaining until our New Year's Eve celebrations, we were running out of time. Where would we go?

Like a lighthouse for a ship's captain, Las Vegas became a beacon on the map. In a matter of seconds we had decided that we would spend a night in Las Vegas before venturing into the solitude of Death Valley where we would celebrate New Year's far away from civilization and the chaos that was sure to come.

By now we were tired of driving and we spent the whole seven-hour trip eagerly anticipating the glorious glow of Las Vegas's electric lights. While the desert scenery with its red mountains and expansive views would, in most circumstances, inspire awe, it failed to excite us. As the car traveled south and the sun slowly set behind the mountains, the lights of Las Vegas provided an ethereal glow.

Finally, as we rolled over the last hill into Las Vegas, the city gradually emerged from behind the mountains and the lights glared with a magnitude that made my pupils quickly contract as they accommodated for this sensory overload. As the car approached the city, I incredulously stared at this architectural monstrosity while simultaneously feeling sorry for the Hoover dam and the burden it must bear--the city is just begging for a Montgomery-Burns-style nuclear power plant.

After finding our way to the main strip--where hotels function as the city's skyscrapers--we parked the car in a spot adjacent to a newly constructed cathedral--the quietest place in Las Vegas and the best place to park our portable bedroom.

With a case of beer in our hands, we walked the strip and absorbed its absurdity as group after group of vacationing bachelors dressed in Gap khakis and shopping-mall-chic plaid shirts congregated at all corners of this adult Disneyland.

While the city's majestic buildings were initially overwhelming, a closer inspection exposed the city's secrets--Las Vegas' magic stemmed from a series of architectural smoke and mirrors. Unlike Rome, Las Vegas was built in a day. Each kitschy replica of some recognizable landmark--be it the Statue of Liberty or a Venetian tower--consists of enough polymer products to make Leo Baekeland proud.

After walking down both sides of the main strip, I had seen enough of Las Vegas to last a lifetime. With our legs having grown weary, we headed for the car in a drunken stupor and retired for the night.

In the morning we awoke to the sounds of shovels grazing gravel as construction workers worked steadily on the sidewalk just metres from our sleeping quarters. It was our cue to leave.

Before we could venture into Death Valley, we needed to collect some essential supplies. For this, we stopped in Beatty, California--a town that begged the question: what good can come from a town full of gas stations and fireworks stands? The answer: nothing.

In Beatty we endured the frightening service of a disgruntled gas station attendant and the intimidating stares of a longhaired Metallica fan--as his tattered concert T-shirt revealed--behind the fireworks stand.

With a car filled with fireworks and alcoholic beverages we headed into the dusty confines of Death Valley, glad to escape Beatty unscathed.

As the sun set behind the mountainous peaks of Death Valley, we turned off the highway onto a lonely dirt road and found a suitable place to park the car for the night. With our campsite selected, we quickly prepared for the night ahead. As Dave collected some dry shrubs--and what isn't dry in Death Valley?--for the fire we planned to build and I pitched the tent atop the desert floor, the sun gradually disappeared. And so it was that in these vacuous environs, far away from human contact, we would casually consume alcohol and watch our selfish fireworks show as my wristwatch quietly conducted the New Year's countdown.

When midnight finally came, we screamed with joy as we realized the world was not going to end. Our celebrations were brief but memorable. And when we had finally achieved a state of drunkenness to rival Truman Capote on a talk show or Kris Kristofferson at the Country Music Awards, we passed out in our tent.

The next morning we awoke to the depressing realization that our trip was over and all that awaited us was a long drive accompanied by a terrible hangover.

Ardently I drove towards Canada, trying to cover the distance in as efficient a manner as possible--stopping only for convenient-store meals, sporadic bathroom breaks, and a terrible night's sleep at another rest area.

Along the way, either because we had spent too much time together or because we were too exhausted to talk, Dave and I communicated little. And in that time of silent reflection--infiltrated sporadically by the intoxicating sounds of a Neil Daimond tune--I tried to get to the root of the indescribable emotions that accompany all return trips.

Often, when we get caught up in the excitement of going somewhere, we forget about the psychological toll we must pay in returning home. When we travel, we remove ourselves from our safety nets and are forced to wrestle with the loneliness that results when familiarity is no longer there to comfort us. And it is this loneliness which promotes the kind of introspection that helps us to better understand ourselves. But, when the trip draws near its conclusion, we realize this new self must return home and resume its old role in everyday life. And this accommodation is often difficult.

In the end, however, the turmoil seems worth it as we tell the tales of our harrowing adventures and exalt in the pleasure of having lived through them. And it is this pleasure that propels us again and again to seek out and discover the earth's infinite array of geographical treasures.

Copyright © 2000 Leonard Durante All Rights Reserved

Leonard Durante is 24 and he still lives with his parents. He is currently looking for a meaning in life or a good job (whichever comes first).