We pulled it off.
Ten fast-paced days and nine significantly slower nights at “the happiest place on Earth”. All without my personal need of illicit, black market sedatives or emergency crowd-phobia counseling interventions. That may sound a lot like a teaser to an old Jerry Springer Show episode to you, but it spelled unmitigated success in my book.
We managed to fly down there and back, visit all of the parks, ride all of the rides, and weather the infinite, roving wall of human beings without a hitch. This, while still retaining our sanity. At least…what little sanity we had prior to leaving. All kidding aside, we really had an amazing time. Nothing but ear-to-ear grins from everyone.
Even with all of this rampant glee and beaming, I found myself taking several mental notes related to the colossal, well-oiled machine that is the House of Mouse. Some of which included items that I firmly believe are absolute essentials for any future anticipated Disney visits down the road:
1) Pack a “gullet-horn”. As one would imagine, a gullet-horn looks exactly like a shoehorn. You’ll need one of these to help choke you down the amount of food that you will receive at your meals. This is because you will feel financially compelled to eat every last morsel dropped in front of you…as well as in front of your spouse and each of your children.
2) Pack a “Yellow Cab” hat. This is for your futile attempts at leaving the park during a parade and/or fireworks display. You’ll be tasked to channel your inner, New York City taxi driver in an effort to successfully navigate a double stroller through the maddening sea of moving human traffic cones. Coincidentally, much like cabs downtown, I don’t stop after running you down either.
3) Pack an English-to-French translation reference tool. Apparently, the entire province of Quebec shuts down during the month of March and relocates to Orlando. Don’t get me wrong, they were an overwhelmingly nice group of people and I happen to be a huge fan of their beers. It was just the whole language barrier thing. I’m of the opinion that if one stands and picks up a folded, double stroller over his head on a crowded bus, it should clearly communicate the international sign for “me and the protruding veins popping out of my neck are attempting to exit this tin can right now and haul this 75-pound, concussion-inducing railcar with me.” Then again, it could also be the Austrian international sign for “I am Arnold Schwarzenegger. Please stop and stare.” Next time, maybe I’ll just point out the window and yell “get to the choppa”.
In addition to these travel essentials, I was also befuddled by a few surprising revelations. Revelations discovered only after living and breathing the full Disney experience.
Now, I’m not one usually surprised by much. Surprises don’t usually happen to people who literally expect the most idiotic things to occur at any random instant. However, these observations led me to some real moments of enlightenment. Amusing in retrospect, completely astonishing in real time. These were in the areas of “towing” and “herding”.
Let’s start with “towing”. Now, I have been guilty of several traffic-related offenses in my lifetime. Particularly in the realm of illegal parking. Having grown up in and around the Washington DC area, it basically a rite of passage. I have been the recipient of parking tickets, even been towed on occasion. There was also that instance where I was the direct beneficiary of the dreaded iron “Collar of Shame” tire lock from Old Town Alexandria’s finest. You just have to be aware that if you take advantage of certain liberties, you should also expect to entertain the associated consequences. When it comes down to it though, sometimes that $60 parking ticket is a whole lot easier to digest than having to walk 10 blocks in the pouring rain. It’s just the nature of the beast.
Although psychologically immune to the parking repercussions associated with major metropolitan areas, I was not expecting to usher in this mentality at the wonderful world of Disney. That is, coming to grips with the common practice now affectionately known to my family as “stroller towing”.
Yes, you read that correctly…
Unbeknownst to me, amid the outskirts of the densely clogged pedestrian arteries of the Magic Kingdom, there are actually marked and designated stroller parking areas. I did notice a few hundred strollers tightly circled together like a convoy of well-defended Conestogas, but I never gave it much thought. It was only after ditching our stroller next to several others near an alleyway that it became painfully obvious. We returned from a seemingly timeless attraction to find that our stroller had vanished.
“It really is a small world ‘cause we just got jacked!”
Our stroller, which was filled with nothing but smile-sustaining, kid-survival rations such as Flavor-Blasted Goldfish and cotton candy, must have been swiped by some kind of highly organized criminal syndicate.
“What kind of sacrilegious, blood-sucking dregs would swipe a kid’s stroller at Disney,” I openly questioned aloud, with little regard to the stares from my immediate audience of roughly five hundred.
In truth, our stroller was moved to one of the designated stroller parking areas by a Disney employee. Moved to ensure that those same clogged arteries were moving in their customary, controlled-chaos manner. An employee with a job description much like a grizzled cast member of the show “Operation Repo”…only wearing pastels, mouse ears, and a smile. Humbled, it was an embarrassing education in Disney etiquette.
The “herding” rationalization was one of those true “light bulb” moments for me. It suddenly dawned on me while I was standing in line for a particular ride. A teenaged Line Czar, wearing a cowboy hat and boots, was barking out orders at me like a Special Forces drill instructor.
“There is no line. Just push all the way in. You’ll get on that ride. Go to your left sir, your left, YOUR LEFT SIR!”
Suddenly, there was a light. The herding, the yelling, the cowboy attire. Were we getting on the “Toy Story” ride or being corralled to pasture? In my mind, the only things missing were the theme song from “Bonanza” and the USDA stamp across my posterior.
My son suddenly piped up and asked why the workers kept yelling at us to move. My reply received his trademark smirk and furrowed brow of confusion. The typical, and only suitable response to one of his pop’s highly veiled, and wildly psychotic, volleys of sarcasm.
“Because we’re cattle, son... Moo.”
Packing essentials and revelations aside, the trip was an overwhelming success. We had more fun than we could keep track of. The atmosphere was stimulating, the food was outstanding, and everyone got to do exactly what they wanted to do. Ten solid days of galloping wildly through the parks, riding rides until nauseous, and devouring every ounce of food within reach. And that’s just what was on my agenda.
The smiles and childhood memories made from this trip will last us a lifetime. We hope to build further memories with a return visit in another four years or so. To be honest though, this trip was all about establishing and passing these memories and experiences along to our children, just as our parents had roughly thirty years earlier. In that regard, mission accomplished.
I do have one additional parting comment. To the guy that I nearly knocked unconscious as I turned to get on the bus with my backpack filled with granola snacks and fifty pounds of water, I tip my hat and apologize again. I’m not entirely sure how to say “get along little dogie” in French, but I believe that “moo” needs no official translation.
