I know there are two camps
of Disney folks. Well, actually,
probably more like three. There
are the hard core Disney fans; acolytes who would defend the Disney ethos--
it’s parks, movies, lifestyle, and cultural branding hegemony—‘til their last
breath. There are the
revulsionists. I made up that word
but I think it pretty much illustrates the other end of the Disney spectrum. And then there are the folks in the
middle; the folks who think, sure, what the heck. It’s an experience like any other and I have a kid who’s
probably been pecked by the, “Have you been to Disney?” question a fair amount
by now, so, why not try it. I’ll
do almost anything once.
And so we went. I figured that third grade was a safe
height for all the rides but still young enough to enjoy the luster of Walt’s
gestalt, so I caved back in November.
Back before I could know that it would be the most glorious and
temperate winter on record. The
concept of escaping a bitter and slushy Northeast March for Florida’s balmier
climes was lost on my son and I felt like a dope for being there when the
weather was certain to be better here, but the tickets had been purchased. All of them, that is, except for the
park entrance tickets. No need to
buy them ahead, I’d been counseled, as there were ticket windows as far as the
eye could see plus a bank of self-serve vending machines. Six minutes tops was one magical
estimate and I believed it, because I wanted to believe in magic.
We first heard word of the
electrical outage at the transportation station—the Ellis Island of
Disneyworld—where one must wait in line for a ferry or monorail ride to take
you to the actual entrance to the Magic Kingdom. “Will we be able to buy tickets?” I asked while snaking for
thirty minutes. “Of course,” came
the cheerful reply from the Disney Cast Member—as they’re all called, not
employee. But when we finally arrived,
the vending machines were all still covered and the battery of ticket windows
were dark and vacant. Cheerful cast
members herded us into what would be our longest line of the day, inching up to
one of the seven Guest Services windows that did have electricity. And when I say us, I mean all twenty or
thirty thousand of us who had waited to buy tickets at the park. It wasn’t pretty.
Okay, I thought, this is a real
teaching moment for my sullen, pouting son; a chance to reminisce over how fortunate
we are. I mentioned that we had
full bellies and a knapsack bulging with sandwiches, snacks and water. I reminded him of how lucky we were to
be here at all and plied him with promises of ice cream and Space
Mountain. But it meant nothing as
we wilted in the hot, cloying sun.
Naysayers we couldn’t escape in line spoke shrilly of doomsday scenarios. I tried to counter with games of I Spy
and the Serenity Prayer, but he was despondent; and hot. I even broke out the travel backgammon
set I’d squirreled away for just such an emergency—not expecting to need it on
the morning of our first day. “I
just want to go home,” was all he uttered. And I couldn’t blame him. Where was Tigger?
Someone send in the clowns!
Why weren’t cast members swooping in to placate us with popsicles? Or palm fronds for shade. Why not just open up the floodgates and
let us in? Wasn’t one day’s
revenue loss worth a generation of great PR? How could they not have a contingency for this? They had one for everything else.
They didn’t because they’re
not perfect. And as my son finally
broke down after 90 minutes and no end in sight, I had to admit that I’d failed
him as well. Had I chosen the
wrong line? Why didn’t we try
another park? We could have been
on our way to Legoland but had already invested so much time that our journey seemed
irreversible at that point. I couldn’t
think on my feet any better that Disney could and so I crumbled as well.
We finally got in. As we grinded though the turnstile the
angry mob behind us grew fainter in the distance. We sauntered off into that shadeless wonderland of ersatz
hopes and dreams; off to get that ice cream. Off to stand in more soul-crushing lines amidst a sea of
parents who’s only simple aim was to bring their kids some joy; FastPasses
simmering elsewhere; dignity back at the hotel. Off to find our own version of an eight-year-old’s supposed idea
of magic. And we did.
And then it began to
downpour.
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