I was afraid someone would catch an edge of my gown and, in stepping on it, loosen the skirt completely from the top and I’d look like Madonna, the rock star, when she wore next to nothing on stage. Could I bring disgrace to an already “decadent” affair? I wondered, did royalty, whom we were imitating by ringing in the New Year just as they did for many centuries, see their ostentatious environs as the same old hat after a while? Did these gilded halls become routine? Drudgery? Did they feel elegant in these bigger-than-life, cumbersome and isolating getups?

I wore my mother’s “Aurora Borealis” Austrian crystal necklace for the first time ever. The clear beads shimmered pink.

It seemed like the whole world came. In the crunch of several thousand wannabe “royals”, we posed with mock guards at the palace entrance and proceeded inside to a majestic stairwell where every couple posed at the landing by a statue of Beethoven and massive flowing palms for pictures. It took an eternity to climb to the top, as we were packed in on each step. For a moment, it felt more like the New York Subway at rush hour than the Imperial Palace in Vienna.

Here we were at The Ball of a Lifetime and my feet were already throbbing miserably before our first dance. I was no Cinderella; more like the wicked stepmother whose bulging feet were too big for the shoe. Oh, well. At least I was in the right story.

We explored each of the myriad ballrooms that had rows of table and chairs and different musicians dressed in period costumes playing a variety of music. It felt like one giant wedding and we women were all brides. One looked exactly like Scarlett O’Hara in her puffed green gown.

At Midnight the Main Ballroom bustled with ballerina dancers emerging from a giant Coo Coo Clock with Roman numerals high on a ledge above the orchestra. Lasers reflected “Happy New Year” in many languages all over the ceiling at the stroke of Midnight. The atmosphere was electrifying as we kissed and brought in the New Year in this 600-year-old palace across the ocean in Vienna.

By miracle, we caught up with the other members of our tour group and spent the night sipping champagne, laughing and rubbing our swollen feet. Then the night caught up with me. True to Cinderella fashion, I dropped a shoe in the taxi. No, it wasn’t a horse and buggy, much to my dismay. And I wasn’t running from my Prince Charming; I was tipsy, so I stumbled on Fred’s arms back into our hotel.

Travel is a beautiful pause punctuating real life. It is conducive to romance. One makes journeys and takes places with one and also makes inner journeys as well. That night at the Ball, I met a fellow traveler who was named after St. Theresa of The Little Flower. Her great uncle had met the saint a century ago and I met the saint who named herself after her example, Mother Teresa. Here we were in an historical place of mammoth proportions and it was a homecoming of “saint-sightseers” and whom we knew.

There are so many sights and sounds to be captured in a trip to Europe. So familiar, the city is now ours. We enjoyed a burdenfuter, a huge sausage frankfurter-looking food on a hero.

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