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| That is ABSOLUTELY CORRECT...at least in my book! |
My getaway is always the 2nd example above –
namely, Walt Disney World in Florida.
For kids, you say. Commercial and
overrated, you say. Say what you wish, WDW
is my Mecca. My first visit was in 1972,
and though I was a wee tot, I still remember the wonder and the glory of my
first sight of Main Street U.S.A. I also
remember my sister teaching me how to color with crayons on the long, long way down I-95 (“one
direction only, and stay inside the lines”), and sleeping in the stifling back
of the crappy Chevy Vega covered with a 1970’s “far-out” psychedelic patterned
sleeping bag, which got blotched with my vomit when I got carsick.
Incidentally, that long trip down I-95 to Orlando is where Rya and I first asked each other "What If" and came up the idea that became our books.
But I digress.
At first, we used to stay at a friend’s house or a relative’s
house and drive over to Disney for the day.
Yep, long haul from Clearwater or Fort Meyers. But in 1977, all that changed when we
discovered Disney’s Fort Wilderness Campground.
From that day on, we enjoyed 2-week summer vacations in the trees around
Bay Lake, in what is probably the best campground in the entire world. We don’t camp, we “cahmp” – meaning we had a
35-foot Terry travel trailer with all the amenities – but even tent campers
live like kings at this campground.
Disney World is the only place in which my parents turned me, my sister,
and my cousin loose, with a reminder that dinner was at 5:00. We knew where we were going, we knew all the
transportation routes, and we knew when to be back and where to meet. (Those were the days before everyone started
fearing child predators and terrorists and so on and so forth.) We saved our allowances all year so we could
buy our Disney shirts and our balloons and our River Country and park tickets
and fruit punch/steak sandwich combos at the Polynesian Village Resort pool, which was our favorite pool on the property.
People always say, “GAHD, you’re going there AGAIN? Aren’t you sick of it?” Simply, no. Many times my husband and I try to make some vacation plans
elsewhere. We always manage to talk
ourselves out of everything and end up making plans for another Disney trip. It's as familiar to us as a condo on the beach is to others: We know what to
expect, how we’re going to sleep, what the pool temperatures will be like, what
restaurants to go to. Our daughter works
down there, so we get to see her. The
scale isn’t tipped in our favor, it’s fallen over; one side is pretty much
lying on the table, while the other side, way up in the air, feebly waves a travel catalog and mutters, "But...but..." Sorry, scale, Central Florida needs our funding.
Now that I’m an adult (at least I’m supposed to be acting
like one, but I don’t), nothing has changed.
I’m still all excited when I call the kid and
tell her to make us some reservations. I
look for the South of the Border signs on I-95, and I always stop for orange
and grapefruit juice at the Florida Welcome Center. (I take meds that aren’t supposed to be taken
with grapefruit juice, but fuck it, I’m in Florida, and it’s a Dixie Cup, for
God’s sake.) I turn into a happy
5-year-old when we pass under the “Welcome to Walt Disney World” sign. (We drove PAST it one time and I am still traumatized by that experience.) I simply don’t care that it’s 100 degrees with 98
percent humidity that feels I'm shoving my way through hot butter and that I’m soaked to the skin in
seconds. I’m in the Happiest Place on
Earth. There's fireworks and Citrus Swirls and Pirates of the Caribbean and the Main Street Electrical Parade and 150 pounds of merchandise with Disney characters imprinted on them. Nothing else will do. I'm an addict, and I'm proud of it.
I’m leaving next week.
I’ll tell Mickey hi for y’all. *throws mouse ears in suitcase*
--Rebecca
--Rebecca
