Monday, May 16, 2016

For Love of the Mouse

That is ABSOLUTELY CORRECT...at least in my book!
Ah, summer.  The lovely time of year when you decide you Deserve A Break and start looking forward to destinations unknown or happily familiar.  Whether it’s sunning on the beach, running down Main Street with your mouse ears strapped to your head, or freezing your butt off while climbing the snowy mountains of Nepal, it’s still a getaway.

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

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