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I am one of those who will take little heed of the so-called millennial aspect of this New Year's Eve, since in fact the third millennium starts a year from now. However, my adopted homeland is the abode of the big-time "vecher," the vodka-bedecked "zastol'ye," the raging "p'yanka," the sublimely debauched "tusovka" -- all of which translate as occasions for the consumption of alcohol and the subsequent performance of below-the-table shenanigans. Thus we take it for granted, here in Russia, that New Year's comes twice, first on January the first and second on January the 13th, which is New Year's by the Gregorian calendar -- a measure of months rendered defunct by Lenin but revived by modern Russians to double the number of drinking holidays. And thus we also take it for granted that the partying will be fierce, whether or not this or that millennium is getting underway, petering out or just dragging along.

I will spend New Year's with my wife, Tatyana, and her family in a small town outside Moscow, and probably in a more sober state than one might expect, for New Year's here is also considered a family holiday of cheer and soulful reflection. Out at Tatyana's parents' house, a feast will be set of caviar, sturgeon, smoked meat, vodka and champagne; "The Irony of Fate," a Soviet-era film about drunkenness and true love in prefab housing, will be playing on television, as it has for the last three decades; and the toasts and best wishes will no doubt ring loud and long. But those in attendance will fall silent to listen to Alla Pugachova sing, through the lips of Barbara Brylska, the haunting verses of "Marina Tsvetayeva" and "Bella Akhmadulina." This is appropriate: New Year's Eve, millennial or not, is most of all an occasion for each of us to treasure those beside us, and remember those who, during the past 365 days, left our world forever.

Then, with the midnight chiming of cathedral bells across the snowy land, it will all begin again.

Jeffrey Tayler is Salon Travel's Moscow correspondent and the author of "Siberian Dawn." He also writes for The Atlantic Monthly, Harper's and Condé Nast Traveler, and is a regular commentator on National Public Radio's "All Things Considered."

MAUREEN WHEELER

My husband Tony and I are being very quiet for the millennium eve. We will join friends at a neighbor's house for the first part of the evening, with champagne, nice food and lots of chat, then we'll walk down to the Yarra to see the fireworks display and along to Southbank, where there will be bands. Remember that it's summer here, so we are hoping for a beautiful, warm night. This isn't terribly exciting, I'm afraid, but it should be fun.

Maureen Wheeler is the co-founder and head, with her husband Tony Wheeler, of Lonely Planet Publications.

ELLIOTT NEAL HESTER

For New Year's Eve, I'm going to be jumping around on the roof of my apartment building in the heart of South Miami Beach. Joined by 200 of my closest friends, we'll be jamming to some really loud house music, courtesy of an overpriced DJ. Along with four co-hosts (including a party-hearty female landlord), we've constructed a 25-by-25-foot dance floor, hired a half-naked go-go dancer, purchased machines that spew smoke and bubbles and laser beams, smuggled in gallons of duty-free liquor, bought silver party hats and wearable neon "glow sticks," and hired two security guards to protect us from would-be party crashers who can see us having fun from down on the street.

At sunrise, once the last dance tune has merged with the sound of chirping sparrows, a motley crew of die-hard guests will accompany me (and the other hosts who are still standing) to the beach. It's a seven-block walk from my apartment to the lip of the warm Atlantic. If the weather is as warm as it has been in past years, there may be a whole lot of skinny-dipping. But I'm sure we won't be the only ones. With a half million party-goers expected to invade my neighborhood, there are bound to be a few visitors left, splashing around the water, delirious, with us.

Elliott Neal Hester writes Salon Travel's biweekly "Out of the Blue" column. He has been a flight attendant for 13 years, and has written for National Geographic Traveler, Men's Fitness, Glamour, Maxim and Caribbean Travel & Life.

DONALD D. GROFF

On the eve in question, I plan to travel a manageable distance -- 12 miles. I'll celebrate in Philadelphia with my friends Kent and Cecile, who are spending their first New Year's in the 19th century row house they've been renovating for most of 1999. Some of the celebrants helped mix concrete for the kitchen floor, so it's fitting that we'll be feasting there.  This time the mix will include Chincoteague oysters, 15 braised lobsters, a big striped bass, Cecile's famous potatoes on the grill and -- in homage to a holiday tradition in her native Provence -- 13 desserts.  

We'll wash it all down with beer and bubbly, to the tune of Cuban, mariachi, jazz and reggae music. After midnight we'll adjourn to a neighbor's home, a former convent, where the spirit will move us to dance until dawn -- or collapse. If the city awakes to a Y2K crisis, at least we'll dine on leftovers worthy of the occasion.

P.S. Philadelphia's got a 24-hour lineup for New Year's Eve, including 2,000 people dressed as Rocky Balboa, running up the steps of the art museum, as in the movie. Details on all are available online.

  Donald D. Groff writes Salon Travel's weekly "Travel Advisor" column. He has been dispensing travel advice for more than a decade for such publications as the Philadelphia Inquirer, Newsday, the Boston Globe and the Kansas City Star.

ROLF POTTS

Noplace to go:

In the fall of 1992 -- back before Y2K was known by its current hipster-alarmist acronym -- Time magazine speculated on which world travel destinations would host the grandest year 2000 party. The Great Pyramids at Giza (supposedly slated to host a $10,000-a-head celebrity bash) were mentioned, along with Stonehenge, the Acropolis and the Great Wall of China. "Those who don't start planning now," the article read, "may find themselves, on the night of nights, all dressed up with no place to go."

Seven years after this far-sighted warning, I confess that I have yet to start planning my own New Year's revelry.

Fortunately, the best option when faced with "no place to go" is to go Noplace. That, I am proud to say, is where I'm headed this year: Noplace. And -- considering that so many other people seem to be suffering from an overload of information about information-overload -- I suspect I'll have lots of company.

Late in the pages of "Cannery Row," John Steinbeck points out that overplanned, over-anticipated fetes often become "slave parties," whipped and dominated by the very gravity of their own expectations. "These are not parties at all," he writes, "but acts and demonstrations, about as spontaneous as peristalsis and as interesting as its end product." Hype and circumstances considered, Y2K threatens to be the biggest slave party in human history.

The good news is that the celebration of New Year's -- Y2K or otherwise -- has never really been about history. New Year's, rather, is about joy -- and this is why Noplace is such a good place to go.

By Noplace, of course, I mean Someplace. And by Someplace, I mean Anyplace -- be it Timbuktu, the Gobi Desert, or Novi, Michigan. Technically, Anyplace could even include the Great Pyramids at Giza -- although any party with a $10,000 entrance fee is probably less an expression of joy than an expression of status. But wherever Noplace is, the point of going (or staying) there has very little to do with the place itself. Information society too often tempts us to idealize the other, to know where we want to be instead of knowing where we are. Thus, to realize that Noplace is the only place is a spiritual victory of sorts.

For me, the trailhead to Noplace will begin a few days before 2000 in a northern Italian village called Cimone. There, I will escort my friend Valentina to the wedding of her 60-year-old uncle. Once the vows have been spoken, Valentina and I will probably not go to Rome or Prague or Vienna -- even though all these destinations are all very fashionable and well within striking distance.

Instead, we will just go -- and hopefully joy will follow.

Rolf Potts writes Salon Travel's biweekly "Vagabonding" column.
salon.com | Dec. 31, 1999

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