March 12, 2006
Disney for Non-Disney People
We aren't Disney People. We have friends who are Disney People and they are not like us. They have a closet full of princess costumes, a DVD collection of digitally-remastered decades-old animated films and dated limited edition Mickey Mouse statues that arrive in the mail each Christmas season like clockwork.
So I thought Disney World would be a nice diversion for our vacation—a place to stay offline and let Trevor roll his eyes at costumed college interns while we tried to convince him to get on boat rides through puppet shows. I didn't think we'd enjoy it any more than a state fair or a Six Flags. I was wrong.
There was the Disney World I knew when I was five, the one where my parents hung a purple park ticket on a string around my neck (which I promptly lost). Bryan and I were given Mickey ears embroidered with our names and I got a tiny wishing well made of spun glass. All of the rides were breathtaking and the sensory input was overwhelming (in a good way).
Then there was the Disney World from when I was eleven. I liked the park, but only ironically. I was tired from walking, sunburned and sweaty. I probably got yelled at a few times for pouting. Pouting was big with me then.
Look at me here, I have no socks on. There are definitely blisters involved in this picture. All I wanted was to chill out on a bench and my Dad was snapping pictures of me. That's a "Go away, Dad." look if I ever saw one.
It rained a lot and we covered Sean's carriage with a protective biohazard seal because he apparently melted in contact with ordinary rainwater. The rest of us just got wet.
I asked my parents to get in the stocks in Liberty Square—and to their credit they not only did it, they played along.
Dad and Sean at the Carousel of Progress. They've changed the song since then. It used to be:
Now is the time.
Now is the best time.
Now is the best time of your life.
Now it goes:
There's a great big beautiful tomorrow…
I liked the old song better.
Based on my last experience at Disney World, I thought this trip would consist of going through the motions while watching Disney People act like idiots, but it was wholly different. It wasn't "kid" fun, and it wasn't "ironic" fun... just fun.
You might never have watched Bambi or worn a cap with mouse ears, but the park evokes a certain amount of involuntary wonder for its ability to scale. From the individually-wrapped soaplets in our hotel tub stamped with mouse ears, to the night-time majesty of Big Thunder Mountain—the little things and the big things have been thought through to their logical conclusion. You can't help but have an appreciation for the details that have been thoughtfully considered.
But the creepiest, most intriguing parts are the little cracks in the Disney World facade. During the week, Space Mountain was shut down a few times for repairs. We just happened to travel through it on the Blue Line while the lights were on and the cast members were making fixes. It was amazing inside with the lights on; dusty, drab and old. That ride is only one year younger than I am. The ceiling looks like an ancient roller rink dome without the spinning planets projected on it.
A game called "I could live there" evolved from the exposed underbelly of Disney World. At first glance you think the entire set is seamless—but there are oodles of dark spaces where a person might live undetected for a day or two. Like the dark caves in the prehistoric jungle on Ellen's Energy Adventure, or the houses in Pirates of the Caribbean; shallow, but with just enough room to lie down unseen. Do they turn on the lights and sweep every inch at night? Or could you stay there a few days with a bag of beef jerky living behind Snow White's witch?
But the highlight of the trip was our after-hours foray into the Magic Kingdom. Forget about lines, we had the place completely to ourselves. We walked up into the Swiss Family Robinson tree house at 1:00am. It was poorly-lit by the lanterns within the scenes and hard to navigate the steps. We stumbled through together, holding hands and giggling in the dark.
During the day, you might wait an hour on a snaking line to get into most attractions. But there were seven of us total in the Tiki room show—three Liloias and four others. The cast member in charge was slappy with fatigue, which was funnier than his scripted lines.
We went next to Aladdin's magic carpets and rode several times in a row without leaving our seats. It was cold and windy up there, but no one wanted to leave when we could ride our fill. They let us do the same on Big Thunder Mountain; we rode four times in a row. A cast member showed me how to unlock the car behind us that kept getting stuck, so I could step on the lever for the next pair of guests behind me.
And why would anyone ever go on the Jungle Cruise at any time other than midnight, when it's pitch black on the river and the wait time for a boat is fifteen seconds?
Disappointingly, Extra Magic Hours at Epcot were not dramatically different than regular hours, except for the darkness. I haven't determined why. Earlier closing? Fewer attractions on which to spread people out? The wait for Soarin' was still 90 minutes, so we never ended up riding it.
There was one important lesson learned at Disney World; one that I will not soon forget. That no matter how many warnings are hung, flashed, narrated and spoken to me about "motion sickness associated with spinning," I will mindlessly do whatever Gary Sinise tells me. Gary Sinise says I'm an astronaut... then I'm an astronaut. Doesn't matter that I get carsick while watching a road trip on tv. I'm aware that I don't do well with spinning. I've never been on a Gravitron; heck, I don't even play Pin the Tail on the Donkey, but I was coaxed into an immense centrifuge—the type you could spin eight-foot test tubes of extracted DNA in—by Lieutenant Dan. Oh it felt like takeoff, all right. It also felt very close to unconsciousness.
As long as FOX doesn't air the new show, "Gary Sinise Stares into the Camera and Tells People to do Bad Things," I guess I'm all right.