Auld Lang Sigh

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No wonder a growing number of people just want to hide out. Louis Rittmaster of Fort Lauderdale, Fla., is no stranger to Champagne celebrations; each year he heads to an apartment he owns in New York City to toast the ball drop. But this time, the 59-year-old retiree is instead heading to Yogaville, Va., for a two-day silent retreat. "This year had to be different," Rittmaster says. "It was either this or be in the ocean for a swim at midnight." Meanwhile, at midnight, south of downtown Los Angeles, LaRonda Calloway, 45, of Culver City, Calif., will attend a "watch service" at New Commandment Missionary Baptist Church--safely indoors in a city where partyers are known to fire guns in the air to start the year. "You're there to thank the Lord for bringing you through the old year," she says, "and ask him to keep blessing you through the new year."

Introspection, contemplation--of what, exactly? That may be beside the point; the common refrain here is the chance to reflect simply on this raucous, wildly overpromoted night. When Minneapolis, Minn., public relations executive David Feider thinks about this New Year's Eve, for instance, he fantasizes about absconding to a hideaway along Lake Superior to "stare at the moon, as far away from the rabble as possible"--to escape not Y2K-prompted food riots or the Four Horsemen but rather the omnipresent buzz over the event. "I can't really identify with it anymore," he says. "People are getting so numbed by all the pregame coverage on so many things, they can hardly hold on for the game."

Feider, who doesn't have definite plans yet, might consider heading to London, where the Four Seasons hotel is auctioning off an antimillennium getaway. The lucky winner will spend the night in a soundproof suite, sans clocks and calendars, watching black-and-white movies and eating dinner from a pre-1950s menu. The anachronistic evening fits the disposition of Britons, most of whom plan to stay home on New Year's Eve, according to a survey of 100,000 by the department store Selfridges. "It reflects the mood of the '90s," says Selfridges marketing manager Nicola Lloyd. "People don't need to go mad. They just want a night to remember with family and friends."

Indeed, for the organizers of some of the millennium's most ambitious bacchanals, Dec. 31, 1999, may just have come a decade or so too late. There's something a bit retro, a shade Dynasty-esque, about such gilded offerings as the Chicago Fairmont Hotel's two-night suite package for two at $306,426--which includes a party for 10 with Dom Perignon and beluga caviar, as well as a 2000 Lamborghini Roadster. ("We'll even throw in a tank of gas," says public relations director Susan Ellefson.) The late-1990s boom is a time of less conspicuous, if no less expensive, consumption, when Donald Trump has morphed from poster boy for ostentation to tax-the-rich political populist, when the wealthy want to have their Valrhona chocolate cake and feel karmically good about it too. Many of the well-heeled are thus laying out the lobster medallions in opulent but low-key celebrations at home. That's been a boon for upscale catering services like Ridgewells in Washington. Says owner Susan Lacz: "We're seeing a lot more bookings for small, elegant home parties this year."