The Disneyland Blues
It feels strange to say that I miss the experience of being in a major corporation’s multi-billion-dollar parks and resorts, but such is life. Over the last two months of quarantining — because, as I keep reminding myself through the constant state of shock in which I feel like we’re all living, it’s been two months of this so far, and there’s no end in sight — my wife, 5-year old son and I have watched theme park videos. We’ve begun building paper models of rides and park buildings. And I listen to Disney park music on a daily basis. But I still miss the experience.
To begin, the “Joking aside” part is in reference to some earlier tweets I sent out yesterday. (Short version: those tweet prompts where someone says, “Hey, if I gave you a million dollars, could you eat a whole pizza in an hour?” are incredibly dumb.)
Depending on who you are and your opinion of the theme parks, the way I responded to my own question is an Answer That May Surprise You. Your answer might be a certain ride or an attraction. But what I love about the Disney theme parks is an aesthetic, atmospheric feeling. I can put it into words — and I’m about to — but the description can’t hope to compare to the real thing.
The most distinctive memory I have is from before my wife and I became parents. (We were, for a couple years, that Millennial couple who had annual passes to Disneyland. Eventually, they raised the price too high for our tastes.) It’s March of 2012, and we’re at the Walt Disney World Resort, for what is still our most recent visit to the Orlando area. We were, as we did on all three of our trips to Walt Disney World as a married couple, staying on property. This time, we were at the Port Orleans - Riverside hotel, themed after the bayous of Louisiana.
One night on our trip, after we’d come back from a long day of visiting one of the Disney theme parks, we were relaxing in our room when my wife asked me to head down to the food court in the hotel to get some snacks. It was an easy enough request, and I was happy to comply. I walked downstairs, headed to the food court, got the snacks, and headed back to the room. And that is the memory I think of most often.
It’s not because of the functional task I completed. It’s because of the winding pathway from the building where our room was situated to the food court. It’s because of the calmly churning water wheel attached to the building housing the food court. It’s because of the sound of crickets chirping away in the massive canopy of trees overhanging the path. It’s because of the balmy temperature. The smell in the air.
On a more regular basis, I try to chase that feeling as much as is humanly possible when I’m at Disneyland now. (When you’re a parent, that feeling doesn’t come your way so often.) During our last trip, we found time to stop at the Tropical Hideaway in Adventureland, positioned right next to the Jungle Cruise. Adventureland has, over time, become my favorite section of a Disney theme park, and the Tropical Hideaway is one of its newest, most charming additions.
In reality, when you sit at one of the tables at the Tropical Hideaway, overlooking the loading area of the Jungle Cruise, you’re only a few hundred yards away from the real world. You’re only a few hundred yards away from strip malls, from a neverending line of hotels, from chain restaurants, from freeways, and more. But the success of the Disney theme parks — and especially Disneyland, since it doesn’t have the benefit of being part of a massive city unto itself — is that it can create a satisfying bubble in which you lose yourself.
As I wrote Friday, a lot of that bubble has already burst. For some, wearing masks will ruin the illusion. But for me, it will not. The feeling of the parks, the atmosphere of certain rides and restaurants and lands, will still be there. You just have to use your imagination. It’s all we have right now.