Wednesday, January 23, 2019 // The Statement 
3B

M

y blasé attitude toward New 
Year’s Eve was challenged while 
standing in the dairy aisle of the 
grocery store.
Before that moment, I have never been 
one to indulge in the holiday branded with 
sequin dresses, champagne flutes and a 
drunken chorus counting down to another 
year of obligations. The occasion never quite 
seemed to fulfill “An Affair to Remember’s” 
promise of finding romance atop the Empire 
State Building.
Yet, the disillusionment accompanied 
with New Year’s Eve unexpectedly returned 
to my mind last December. As my mother’s 
daughter, I was raised to always check the 
item’s expiration date while grocery shop-
ping. In accordance with her principle, I 
stretched my arm into the cooler scanning 
for the freshest gallon of milk, only to real-
ize the entire shelf was stamped with the 
imminence of 2019. 

All of the 2018 milk was gone. The 
dairy aisle had already moved on to 
the promise of a new year. There 
would never be another gallon of 
milk on the shelf expiring in 2018. I 
felt a fizzy sentimentality bubbling 
inside of me. Perhaps this was the 
feeling people seek to experience 
when the clock strikes midnight.
Standing before the milk and 
all of its oat, soy, almond and skim 
siblings, I decided I was going 
to wholeheartedly embrace New 
Year’s Eve this year. My family was 
headed to the beach to escape over-
cast Midwest skies and the hazy 
disorientation that accompanies 
the week between Christmas and 
New Year’s.
A perfect opportunity to give 
New Year’s Eve a second chance.
The night arrived and I donned 
my gauzy linen pants with an airy 
top. My mom told me I looked like 
Annie Hall if she was going to the 
beach. Diane Keaton is a legend, so 
I took her words as a compliment. 
Despite the fact we had been on 
vacation for nearly a week, my Irish 
complexion was barely sun kissed 
— I preferred to camp out under 
the beach umbrella. The thought 
of being kissed at midnight briefly 
wandered across my mind, before 
I realized my expectations were a 
construct of watching far too many 
romantic comedies.
 The spontaneity of my New 
Year’s Eve rested upon the resort’s 
banquet seating chart. As some-
one who has only ever attended 
one wedding and drools over Anna 
Wintour’s Met Gala seating chart, 
I was thrilled by the prospect of 
indulging in conversation with total 
strangers. Maybe I would meet my 
own Cary Grant. 
I found my seat and eagerly waited for my 
dashing “An Affair to Remember” moment. 
The hostesses swam through the tables 
guiding families to their seats. My eager-
ness resembled the novelty of watching pas-
sengers file onboard an airplane as you cross 
your fingers for an amiable person to fill the 
empty window seat next to you. 
A family moved through the crowd and 
paused at our table. I looked up, ready to 
lock eyes with the person who would prove 
to me the glamour of New Year’s Eve is not 
reserved for Deborah Kerr. Yet, my leading 
man was not a handsome Brit. As fate would 
reveal, I was seated across from a 12-year-
old boy.
His 
name 
was 
Daniel. 
Last 
name 
unknown. We were both seated at the end 
of the table, awkwardly too far away to be 
included in the “adult” conversation that 

our parents were already engaging in. I 
found myself staring at the buffet fixings on 
my plate. Lobster Imperial. Sushi. Lasagna. 
Hummus. It looked like Epcot had spewed 
all over my plate.
I should add this experience was made 
even more bizarre by the theme of the ban-
quet: medieval renaissance. Waiters donned 
knight costumes and the call of bugle horns 
bellowed throughout the hall.
So there we sat, Daniel nibbling on his 
kosher chips and salsa with the muted dia-
logue of his mother explaining the stress of 
bar mitzvah season on the Upper West Side 
floating in the background.
I figured I would introduce myself since 
our eight-year age difference seemingly bur-
dened me with the responsibility to lead the 
conversation. I would characterize the dis-
course that ensued as more of an interview. I 
would ask questions and he would respond.
I asked him what he did for fun and soon 
learned he enjoyed playing chess. I harkened 
back to my limited exposure to the game as 
an elementary school student during recess 
— Daniel was quick to correct me that he is a 
competitive chess player.
The rest of dinner conversation was check-
ered with Daniel explaining the lifestyle of 
a burgeoning chess champion. He outlined 
his rigorous practice schedule with both a 
private chess coach and online portal only 
accessible to ranked players. He described 
his plans to travel to Norway to compete 
against chess grandmasters in a tourna-
ment. I learned about the governing bodies 
of the chess world — both domestically and 
internationally. He revealed tournament 
scandals, like the time a player flipped the 
entire chess board over in frustration mid-
game. He noted the disputed rules of chess 
and how computers have made gameplay 
more vulnerable to cheating. And thanks to 
our conversation, I now know the best chess 
players are from Turkey and Scandinavia, 
but the United States holds its own alright.
This conversation lasted until Daniel 
cleared his plate and left to go play pool. I 
say this nonchalantly, because by the end of 
our conversation on strategy games, I would 
not have expected anything less from the 
boy I had just met. 
I soon excused myself, too, bid farewell 
to my parents and schlepped off to my hotel 
room well before midnight.
 There I found myself lying on the bed 
watching Anderson Cooper and Andy Cohen 
head into the fourth hour of their New 
Year’s Eve broadcast. As “Auld Lang Syne” 
began to hum from the televised streets of 
Times Square to my hotel room, I realized 
while I would likely never see Daniel again, 
he was certainly an acquaintance I would 
not forget. Maybe New Year’s Eve isn’t about 
finding love. Maybe instead it is a night that 
glimmers with the hope of witnessing some-
thing unforgettable.

BY SHANNON ORS, DEPUTY STATEMENT EDITOR

New Year’s knight

ILLUSTRATION BY SHERRY CHEN 
 
 
 
 
 
 

“Perhaps this 

was the feeling 

people seek 

to experience 

when the 

clock strikes 

midnight.”

