So This Is the New Year

The New Year's holiday has never worked for me. During my best New Year's Eve, I kicked a hole through a door and then punched another hole through a wall, for reasons that made sense at the time. Last year I spent New Year's Eve on a plane to Hong Kong. I got food poisoning the night before so I could not drink. As 2004 slowly clicked into 2005, the German next to me downed four glasses of wine, grunted, and commenced snoring loudly. I had no expectations for the day and night of Dec. 31, 2005.

Eschewing the anxious champagne-fest that usually happens on New Year's, my nineteen-year-old brother Aarlo and I headed down to northwest Mexico this winter break to see the Canyon of Copper, deeper than Arizona's Grand one. We were to arrive in Chihuahua on the 30th and take the train into canyon country.

The 31st started at 5:30 a.m. A jogging addict, Aarlo needs to run every morning for twenty minutes in order to feel human. Shivering, we passed through the city of Chihuahua.

At 7 a.m., we boarded the train to Divisadero. According to the Lonely Planet guide to Mexico, many travelers consider the Copper Canyon Railway to be "among the world's most scenic rail journeys." I enjoyed watching Mexico's countryside devolve from city to town to ranches spread out across the sand. We climbed higher into trees and bushes. Fresh mountains, banded by trees, poked out through the foliage.

Arriving in town, a local cajoled us into staying in his guesthouse, 300 pesos (almost thirty dollars) a night. A gas heater was affixed to the wall next to the bathroom, as the night temperature was often below freezing.

I could see the village's dirt road from my window as well as a few of the dwellings that seemed to grow from the dirt. Aarlo and I dropped off our bags and immersed ourselves in the surroundings, climbing a hill to watch the setting sun soften the jagged teeth of the canyon walls.

We sighed. We snapped pictures. At 6 p.m., as twilight set, we grew hungry. Our hotel had no restaurant, and we had no food except for crackers. The only hotels with restaurants were palaces, filled with wealthy Mexicans and gringo tour groups. Our eyes adjusting to the dark, we tromped into the nearby Hotel Mirador.

The dining hall was full. The maitre d', an elderly lady with frizzy hair, told us to wait in the lounge. Frizzy Hair said she would let us in as soon as a table opened up, and handed us a remote control. We flipped. Six channels were Rocky IV. The other five channels were blurry versions of the same film. As Ivan Drago slew Apollo Creed, nine o'clock rolled around. We went inside the dining room, and the maitre d' told us if we please to wait a bit longer.

We started playing food games. One of us would name a food, and the other would think of a food that started with that food's last letter. The game ended when Aarlo said bagel, and I countered with the lox. A dog entered the lounge, and Aarlo joked that I should eat it. At a quarter to ten, we entered the dining room. It was mostly empty, except for a table of Mexicans we had met earlier.

Frizzy hair shrugged when we asked about food. "We have no more. Sorry." Behind us, one middle-aged lady rose up from the table to our defense. With hand gestures and passion, she argued in Spanish for the sake of our stomachs. Frizzy Hair relented and her tablemates clapped.

I shoved the chicken tortilla concoction into my mouth. Aarlo devoured my salad and downed two glasses of wine, Cottage style. We paid two hundred pesos and left. Aarlo was still thirsty and our recently acquainted friends invited us back for a drink. As we walked up the hill, one of them asked, "How was dinner?"

"Yeah. Great deal. Five chunks of turkey and a measly piece of bread." I said.

Out of nowhere: a yell. "I want you out! You will leave my hotel immediately." I jerked my head around and saw Frizzy Hair, arms flailing and chest heaving, shouting in Spanish about "generosidad" and "ingrato."

"You will leave or I will call the police," she said, shaking. We waved goodbye to our friends and skipped off, giggling nervously as we crossed train track and field in the darkness. Thousands of stars dotted the sky; it felt like we were in a giant planetarium.

I feel asleep at 11:48 p.m. Outside dogs barked to celebrate the coming of a rabbit from up the hill near the cornfields. "As New Year's Eves go," I said to Aarlo just before turning in, "this one was not too bad."

Isaac Stone Fish is a Columbia College senior majoring in EALAC. The Sounds of Isaac runs on alternate Thursdays.