Cripes, I’m old. Well, old-ish. Oh, don’t try to tell me otherwise, I have too much evidence on my side. I’m not talking about that grey hair nonsense because my hair’s been grey since my late 20’s, hidden by frantically applied chemicals for decades. No, the knowledge of my getting on in years comes from the perceived effort required to do anything these days beyond turning the page of a book and lifting a wine glass.

Take New Year’s Eve. I used to be the queen of Auld Lang Syne. I don’t know how many times I’ve stood on a snowy waterfront in Newfoundland, half (or wholly) in the bag, braving frigid temperatures in a skimpy dress and nylons (see, I still call them nylons, sure proof of my long in the tooth status) waiting for a countdown and mediocre fireworks display.

This year I was invited to Zurich to partake in the big city festivities, but with the dust on the apartment move barely settled, I was too wrung out for anything more than putting on a coat and hat. The good news is my husband had the same level of motivation this year. He too is in a state of rapid decline, thanks be to Jaysus. Imagine if he was good to go all the time. I’d have to resort to slipping Valium in his coffee and he hates when I do that.

Drawing upon the last energy reserves, we bundled up and hit the Vevey main square at 11:00 on New Year’s Eve. I do enjoy a town that has 3 champagne bars, especially one that lights up…

This was just my speed—a small but festive group, all kinds of folks from all kinds of places. Certainly, the whippersnappers were well represented. There were the Swiss kids, easily identifiable by the casual way they poured champagne for one another into crystal flutes and sipped like they were toasting their latest corporate merger. You just don’t see that in Canada.

And there were the American youngsters…

clearly ready to burn the village to the ground and raise the star spangled banner. No, not at all, they were having a great time as were the dancing toddlers and young girls teetering around in their sparkly platform stilettos.

And there were the expected pyrotechnical displays…

Of course the older (and considerably more eclectic) crowd were also out and about wishing each other a bonne année

Which brings me back to my original point—proof that I’ve moved into a more mature demographic. When I asked to take this man’s picture, the rest of his friends pulled back not wanting to be captured in costume. I was walking away when one of his female, camera-shy companions chased me down and told me he wanted my phone number. So, old but not out. See, that’s what I love about Swiss men, they know a good vintage when they see one.