Last New Year’s eve, we planned to return from our trip to the US, and spend a jet-lagged but pleasant evening looking out at the fireworks from our bedroom window on the eight floor. That didn’t work because our flight was delayed, so we welcomed the new year on a place over the Atlantic.
This year, with an infant, we opted to stay home, but now we live in a quiet residential quarter, with no view whatsover, so we didn’t think we’d see many fireworks. We were wrong.
Apparently, in a country where guns are illegal and fireworks are allowed only once a year, you really need to get it all out of your system. For three days prior to New Year’s, there were random explosions around the neighborhood. This increased dramatically on the 31st, going on pretty much all day.
It picked up even more after dark. We thought that it was all the people who have kids that they want to put to bed later, lighting their fireworks now instead of waiting for midnight. Wrong again.
By the time midnight neared, the sound of rockets exploding all around us was routine. And at midnight, all hell broke lose. It’s impossible to capture this brand of insanity with a camera because it took place in every direction. This went on for at least an hour. I spent 20 minutes in the back yard taking pictures and wish I’d worn earplugs.
All the racket woke up Ellen, who was delighted, and ran around the house looking out each window and rambling about colors, and trying to pronounce the word “fireworks.” It was 2:00 am before things quieted enough to put her to bed.
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