The Happiest Place On Earth: A Report From The Front Lines (Part 1)
In early January, DadCentric sent intrepid writer TwoBusy deep into the heart of the Floridian Disneybeast. He was set up as an embedded member of what military experts call a "family unit," and told to explore the environs and report back from the front lines. His live feed was disrupted almost immediately upon landing in exotic Orlando... and no physical traces of his team have been found.
However, the following notes - apparently taken by TwoBusy during the first five days of the journey - were later recovered by a crack U.N. team of investigators. Here, for the first time, DadCentric shares this harrowing portrayal of a man plunging into the depths of the fabled Kingdom of Princesses.
DAY ONE
• Our plane descends from the clouds, and beneath me I see the mottled patina of Central Florida. I know I shouldn't be surprised by how flat it is, and yet: it is, as always, strange to see a landscape more defined by what descends from its surface than all that rises from it. Ponds, canals, what I presume are boundless acres of engineered and reengineered wetlands. And somewhere, in the midst of this all, a promised land of magic.
• The children grow restless as we begin our slow arc towards Orlando Multidimensional Airport. There are expectations that the terminal will be filled with Princesses and magical animals. For the record: if Orlando TSA is comprised of talking bears, I will consider myself honestly impressed.
• We arrive! And our baggage comes off the plane quickly! This is awesome! We head over to Disney's Magical Express to be whisked away to our lodging, and... ::reality slaps us in the face::
• Apparently "Express" is a relative concept. There are literally hundreds of people in multiple twisting lines next to and in front of us. All waiting for buses to carry us off to the promised land. Considering that we've already been in transit for about 6hrs (and others here have presumably been traveling for even longer) this early introduction to the intricacies of Disney Line Management is an unanticipated bonus.
• 30 minutes into our wait. Approximately four buses have come during that time, and we've moved about eight feet forwards. Thank god for the dozen HDTVs strategically placed throughout the lines playing endless loops of playful chipmunk cartoons, distracting our little'uns from the knowledge that we are herded at glacier speed toward the slaughterbus.
• 45 minutes into out "Express" wait. My wife, looking up from our coterie of moaning children: "This is so magical."
• 52 minutes after we arrive at the Disney Magical Express, we board the Disney Magical Express. This bus had better sprout fucking wings and fly like Dumbo if it's gonna be worth it.
• No wings. #MagicFail
• After a lengthy tour of some of the other "resort" destinations (including the one that looks like a giant Lincoln Log and the one that looks like that hotel in San Diego), we arrive at the hotel proper. Two elevator trips and approximately fourteen miles of walking later, we arrive at our room. Hooray! ::drops luggage on floor; falls over; dies::
• The children step over my body and move to the window, where they discover a large pool - with waterslide! - outside. SWIMMINGSWIMMINGSWIMMINGSWIMMINGSWIMMING!!!!!!!exclamationpoints!!!!!!!
• Haggling with young humans ensues. We have the power of logic and age on our side, but they outnumber us and are willing to yell far louder than us. Subsequently, they win. Which is how - despite the fact that it's only 40 degrees out and it's January, even in Florida - we find ourselves in bathing suits walking outside to an empty pool at twilight.
• The lifeguards are packing up for the night. "Are you guys Canadian?" "Almost. Boston." I respond. They nod. "It's usually only the Canadians who'll come out to swim when it's this cold." We stand there looking at each other for a minute - me in a t-shirt and swim trunks, the lifeguards in their parkas and ski hats (not joking) - and then they walk away while my kids launch themselves into the pool.
• I should mention: heated pool. 80 degrees or so. Which feels nice and warm.
• For about 10 minutes.
• The boy manages to get one quick run on the water slide before they shut it down. I don't think he's been on anything larger than a 3-foot slide at the local Y during swim lessons, but he shows no fear in jumping onto a 2-story waterslide that launches him halfway across the pool when he finishes. Boy's got some potential.
• Taking a quick look at the time, we scramble back inside, throw on some dry clothes, and find our way to a large, common-area window to see the evening Magic Kingdom fireworks. At 8pm, as promised, the sky above the Princess Castle lights up in an impressive display of color. We watch it from behind glass, from a distance — the phosphorus lights refracting against the window, the explosions baffled, our children struck with wonder at this first muted brush with the promise of magic.
DAY TWO
• A screaming comes across the sky the room as the children awaken to the knowlege that this is the day - THE DAY! THE DAY! THE LONG-AWAITED DAY! - when they will enter the promised land of The Magic Kingdom. But first (as if this day could possibly be any more awesome!) we're going to have breakfast with Mickey and friends. Because, apparently, one dines with rodents in Orlando. It's a tradition or something.
• We make our way down to Café Mickey and stop at the first checkpoint. "Papers, please" the maüstrooper demands. We present documentation in proof of our reservation, which are studied thoroughly, and then we are admitted to the waiting area. We stand quietly, waiting to see what happens next. Monorails quietly glide by, carving a soft arc as they approach and then enter the hotel. The boy is in awe: "There's a train. In the hotel." And as it leaves, a new maüstrooper comes and leads us out of the waiting area, past the long buffet area and to our designated, assigned seats. We begin to sit, and are gently re-engineered. "You want the kids to all sit on this side. So they will be right there when Mickey comes."
• Rodent access = preferred.
• I exaggerate, of course, as Mickey is as neutered and neutral an interpretation of rodentia as, it will turn out, the buffet is an interpretation of actual food.
• It's not about the food, of course. We are told to get our food, and then the Disney fauna will come to our table. We will lure them, apparently, with tater tots and breakfast sausages. And so, to initiate the process, we gently guide our horde to the buffet and cover their plates with processed meats and industrial eggs and waffles shaped like mouse heads, and then return to the table to inhale the feast while we want for the second coming of the übermaüs and his kin.
• A six-foot animal ambles past our section of the restaurant. "Look!" says my wife. "There's... uh... one of those ducks!" #DisneyParentFail
• Moments later, the übermaüs himself - King Mickey - comes to our table. He does not speak, and as he waves our kids over for a hug and a photo I suddenly realize: we're paying hundreds of dollars so we can have scrambled eggs with animal mimes. Cue David Byrne: Well... how did I get here?
• Over the course of the following 30 minutes, a cavalcade of anthropomorphicized fauna meanders over to the table and pauses to pat our childrens' heads and pose for photos. There are ducks and dogs and mice and second trips for tater tots and somewhere inside my skull my 21-year old self is pointing at me and laughing hysterically.
• Fourteen hours and eleventy millions dollars later, breakfast is finished and we're on a monorail (Monorail!) to Das Magik Kingdom. To ensure the children are properly excited, we force them to eat a half-dozen pixie stix (each) as we slowly loop our way around the giant DisneyFakeLake. As we pull into the station, they're basically the mammal equivalents of crack-injected raptors. Let the magic begin!
• Surprisingly, there's a line to get in the front entrance. I hope that doesn't mean this place will be crowded.
• My kids: BALLOONS! CASTLES! 3/4 SCALE FAKE TOWNS! OMGOMGOMGOMGOMG
::heads explode::
• We quickly shuffle over to one of Das Magik Kingdom's provinces, Tomorrowland, and jump into what we've been assured is an especially short line to a Buzz Lightyear ride funfest interactive marketing experience. What we discover is that, as in Animal Farm, some DisneySerfs are more equal than others: something called Fast Pass means that you can reserve a spot in a second TurboLine™ so you can go off and do other things and then come back to a ride and buzz past all the poor suckers (like me) and get in and out quick like a bunny and pretend not to notice that some people (like me) are now plotting to kill you to get your Fast Pass.
• Coming off the ride, we find ourselves face-to-face with several kiosks' worth of Pixar-esque loot and within 10 seconds, one of the girls has melted into a complete puddle of weepy goo and promises that she will die if she does not get a plush version of the horse from Toy Story 2 and justlikethat the $20s start flying out of the wallet.
• Which, I guess, is a very real definition of Disney magic.
• We fight our way through a few more lines - each moment of which features all three children writhing in tormet at "OHMYGODTHISLINEISSOLONGCANWEGONOW?" - in order to experience a few more rides (line time:ride time ratio as measured in minutes = 15:1), and then make the strategic decision to divide and conquer. Mrs. TwoBusy takes the girls off to whatever part of the park features lots of Princess/Fairy crap, while the boy and I decide it's time for...
• SPACE MOUNTAIN, BITCHES.
• I should note that my son has never been on a roller coaster before. So, really... what better way for a kid with occasional sensory issues to experience the magic of Disney than by putting him on THE ROLLER COASTER OF PITCH BLACK DEATH AND TERROR?
• #parentingwin
• I try to describe the ride to him while we enjoy this facet of Disney's apparently inifinite line management strategies, but for a spectrum kid with no personal point of reference... well, I'm afraid he's not really getting it. Thank god I'll be sitting next to him the whole time.
• We finally reach the point in line where we can see the roller coaster cars, and... uh oh. They're single-seaters.
• Too late to back out now! BOO-YA!
• As we approach launch position, I try to talk him through things. "I'm going to be sitting right behind you the whole time, and it's going to be crazy and fast and you won't be able to see anything but it's going to be fun and I'll be talking to you the whole time and we're going to have fun! THIS IS FUN! WE'RE HAVING FUN NOW, RIGHT?" I'm smiling at this point like I'm one of The Joker's victims.
• Aaaaaaaand we're up. And hooray! We're at the front! I help him get into his seat, and then hop into mine and we figure out how to bring our safety bars down and then we push forward into the final stop before launch and thank god the seats are close enough that I can still reach forward and hold his shoulder so he knows I'm there and I'm telling him this is going to be great and he's saying "Okay, Dad!" and then we pull forward a bit and start climbing and it's dark but there are little tiny lights and I'm being superhyperpositive and saying "It looks like stars, buddy! It's like we're on a rocket" and then HOLYSHIT we're falling and flying and whipping around corners and we can't see a fucking thing and I'm gripping his shoulder and he's saying "Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness!" and HOLY SHIT DID WE JUST COME OFF THE RAILS? and darkness and twisting and I swear I'm going to pull his fucking shoulder out of the socket and "Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness!" and I'm forcing myself to yell "Yeahhhhhh!" because I want him to know we're supposed to be excited and then the bottom drops out and we plunge and I'm wondering how much longer this will last and then... it's over.
• We stumble off the ride, and I gently pull him over to a bench. His eyes are huge, and as I rest my hand on his back I can feel his heart pounding like a hummingbird's wings. "Are you okay, buddy? Was that fun?" He looks at me. "Dad," he says. "That was the scariest thing EVER!"
• We move slowly out of the Space Mountain cavern of post-ride shopping fun and back into the sunlight, and I think back to when I'd ridden Space Mountain as a 21-year old and... well. This was quite a different experience, wasn't it?
• I check Twitter and discover that, in my absence, something like a dozen different people have started Tweeting me with "IT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL IT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL IT'S..." repeated ad infinitum. It's like each and every one of them is damning me to eternal torment.
• The boy and I stand in some more lines and do some more rides and then regroup with our females. Girl #2 is clutching a spiffy new Princess Jasmine doll. Which is wonderful, as we only have, like, six of those at home already.
• We stop for a horrible, horrible lunch, then stand in some more lines and it's getting to the later part of the afternoon and we're only halfway through Das Magik Kingdom and I'm thinking, "Well, maybe that's good enough" when suddenly we find ourselves standing in front of the gateway to the hell and Mrs. TwoBusy says its name and the kids erupt in cheers and...
• Please, god. Kill me know.
• IT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL IT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL IT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL IT'S A SMALL SMALL WORLD IT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL IT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL IT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL IT'S A SMALL SMALL WORLDIT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL IT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL IT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL IT'S A SMALL SMALL WORLDIT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL IT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL IT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL IT'S A SMALL SMALL WORLDIT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL IT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL IT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL IT'S A SMALL SMALL WORLDIT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL IT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL IT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL IT'S A SMALL SMALL WORLD IT'S A SMALL...
• We will not speak of what happens within those tunnels. Not now. Not ever.
• The sign at the entrance to this ride should have a subtitle: "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."
• We emerge as the early January sun begins to drop in the sky. Mrs. TwoBusy and I assess the squad, determine that 7 hours of Magik Kingdoming is probably sufficient for a single day, and begin the long, slow haul back to the monorail (Monorail!).
• We return to the hotel resort, feed the kids another two dozen pixie stix, and then trudge out to the pool for another round. Once again, we are the only people in this entire 400+ room facility at the pool — and in that sense, it's the complete antithesis of every other aspect of our Disney experience. With the temperature rapidly dropping into the low 40s, I make the brave decision to supervise from the edge of the water while Mrs. TwoBusy and the kids splash around.
• Sacrifices, man. That's what fatherhood is all about.
• Later, thin towels wrapped around shivering bodies, we scramble back toward the promised warmth and shelter of the building. A cold moon shines overhead, and as our keycard grants us readmittance we hear the arrythmic bursts of fireworks beginning to explode somewhere in the distance.
• • •
To be contined. Eventually.
