After a trying first two weeks back at school, full of gray skies, falling slush, and the discovery that I actually was assigned homework over vacation, my Spring Break memories are now distant, soft flickers.
So now that all our tans from our worldwide travels have almost finished flaking away, and the countdown to reading period has begun, I want to tell you all about a place, known affectionately in my heart as Paradise. Some readers may have been there before, others perhaps only in their dreams, but it is place whose image lights a spark of warmth and simplicity in us all.
Disney World. Where when you wish upon a star, it really doesn't make a difference who you are, you'll still be charged seven dollars for the star viewing, and another 15 dollars for a set of wallet-sized snapshots of your glowing, mesmerized face.
It seems surreal that two weeks ago at this time, I was huddled in the corner of a roller coaster car, screaming like a soiled infant at the enormous animatronic Yeti hovered over me. I can hardly believe the magic was actually real. But then I double check the remaining balance on my ATM receipt, and indeed, the joy and wonder that is Disney World really happened.
Don't get me wrong, though; I will testify with my dying breath that Disney World is well worth every cent you spend on it. That families put the same kind of time and industry into saving for a vacation to Disney World that they do into their children's college tuition is, I think, completely valid. They are investments of relatively equal value.
I did reach an epiphany wandering the streets of the Magic Kingdom, however, about the somewhat misguided nature of these savings, and the epiphany is this: Children take all the joy out of travel. Parents should not, under any circumstances, expect to have very much fun when carting kids around Disney World.
"What if," I thought as I exited Space Mountain trembling and fighting back tears, "I had a small child with me who lacked the maturity and adventurous spirit to do this? I would spend the whole time eating funnel cakes and sitting belligerently on the Cinderella merry-go-round."
I lost count of the number of young couples I saw wheeling infants around the parks, decking them out with mouse ears, and pointing to various rides that, predictably enough, the kid showed no interest in.
Why on earth you would spend thousands of dollars to wander around and look at the outside of rides at Disneyworld with someone who neither cares about, recognizes, or will even remember the glory around them is a total mystery.
While bringing newborns to the most magical and expensive place on earth is completely mind-boggling to me, even older children present an issue for me. Disney World, should, above all else, be a time for total self-indulgence. You should never be on anyone else's schedule. With your own child, though, you always have to be the selfless one.
Disney World has been set up such that it's supposed to be a place for kids, thus making you feel guilty when you demand, for instance, another couple hours at Blizzard Beach rather than going to the Teacup ride.
My theory, though, is that it is absolutely impossible for anyone who has not experienced the pressures and tedium of adulthood to appreciate the wonder and pure, unadulterated commercial joy that is Disney World. I, in fact, propose that there should be an age minimum of 18 years for one to be able to even enter Disney World.
Instead of teenagers zealously buying cigarettes, lottery tickets, and pornography on their eighteenth birthdays, they would be clamoring at the entrance of the Magic Kingdom, determined to have their photographs taken with Mickey. The seven dwarves would act as bouncers, stoically checking IDs, but occasionally letting in the cuter princesses first.
Once in the gates, though, I don't think you would find a scene that much different than it is now; no matter your age, Disney World automatically sucks from you not only money, but also wisdom and maturity. Everyone is reduced to the age of eight.
I just feel that Disney World is a valuable privilege that acts as a sort of therapeutic return to your youth that can't really be appreciated in your youth. Because it takes a certain amount of maturity to appreciate the magic feeling that occurs when a chipper cashier takes four dollars from you and hands you five French fries.