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travel essay
TheLittlest Critic
We stayedat twohotels
duringour trip. The firstwas
a two-bedroom townhouse
atMarriott’sVillage
d’Ile-de-France, a faux
villagewithgardens,
fountains, anda tiny
épicerie forprovi-
sions. The secondwas
Vienna International’s
DreamCastleHotel,
whichhadavaguelymedieval
themeand lotsof kid-friendly
amenities. Here,Mollygives
herverdict.
Setting:
village:
“I liked the village
because the little houses felt all
snuggly-wuggly-buggly. I liked
the cats. [Our neighbor fed local
strays.] I really liked the black
cat that atewithhis paw.”
castle
:
“I loved the castle
because it had a ball pool and
video games. Therewas a
statue of a king and knights
in armor. I really liked the
tarantula game. I’m going slow
for you towrite this down.
Don’twrite that down. Don’t
write that down, either.”
Dining:
village:
“I liked the little shop.
When I looked at the food it
mademe feel hungry. I wanted
to eat it. I liked its little shelves.
Itwas cute. That’s it.”
castle
:
“I liked the chicken
nuggets. Oh, and I really liked
the chocolate fountain. And the
cake. [Female voice heard in
background.] This is not your
interview, mummy!”
Swimming:
village:
“This swimming
pool hadnice lights. I liked
the little fountain, and I
liked the Jacuzzi.”
castle
:
“I liked the rocks
and the slide, and I liked the
temperature of the pool. [Loses
focus.] I likedDisneyland!
The ghost
train! Choo-
choo!”
Or at least this is what happened
to me. As the big day approached,
every sniffle became the prelude to a
crippling bout of flu, every raindrop
auguredacontinent-engulfingStorm
of theCentury.
The real problem,I think,was that
there was just too much riding on
the trip’s success. I’d read somewhere
that this would be “the holiday of
a lifetime,” and that had begun to
worryme. I’d conjured up the image
ofMolly in the future, amiddle-age
woman with kids and concerns of
her own, sipping a cup of tepid cof-
fee, reflectingonher first visit to this
magical,mythical place.Ididn’twant
her to lookbackand think,“Well,that
was rubbish.”
My fears weren’t entirely without
merit.For one thing,Molly isn’t the
ideal specimen for a Disney park
adventure. She’s terrified of any ride
that moves faster than an arthritic
tortoise, isn’t particularly keen on
crowds, and as for the princess
thing—our little girl has never even
worn a dress, let alone a tiara.What
werewe thinking,bringingher here?
This was the questionweighing on
measwe stoodbefore theDisneyland
gates—or, as I had come to think of
them, theGates ofDisappointment.
But inwewent.
The first thing you encounter
when you enter the park is Main
Street,U.S.A., a candy-colored strip
of cutesy buildings, most of them
containing stores selling the com-
memorative items that had been
the subject of so many pre-dawn
discussions.At the end of the street,
rising like a massive plastic play-
thing (figures sold separately),were
the castle’s famous pink-and-blue
turrets. I looked at Molly. Molly
looked at the castle.Helen looked at
the price tag on a hoodie with the
word “Grumpy”on it.Thismoment
went on for a while.Not quite
vers
l’infini et au-delà
,but close.
But Disney isn’t the world’smost
ubiquitous entertainment conglom-
erate for nothing.Walking through
thepark’s clutter of attractions is like
having sugar rubbed directly into
your eyeballs. Everything is geared
toward triggering the“Again!Again!”
response.And thekidsgonutswith it.
Theydon’t stop.Again!Again!Again!
By the eighthhour,watching thebig
parade goby, thewavingWoody and
the peppy musical number on an
endless loop, I was rocking on my
heels.Itwasoneof thehappiest late-
afternoon slumps ofmy life.
That was a while ago now, but
Molly and I still love to sit around
discussing thepirategalleon,theani-
matronicdragon,thePinocchio train,
Aladdin’sCave,thecacklingskeletons
and swirling ghosts in the haunted
mansion—wheremy sweet, sensitive
girl responded to a smaller child’s
distress by shouting,“Oop,we’ve got
acrier!”She’sespeciallyproudofhav-
ing ridden theCasey Jr.roller coaster,
whichmoves around an undulating
track faster than a speedinghamster.
Still, I’m pretty sure that Molly
doesn’t enjoy these post-trip chats
as much as she did the nocturnal
bed bouncing beforewe left. I’m the
opposite, and that’s probably a gen-
erational thing—young people look
forward, older people look back.Yet
when I recall our trip, I findmyself
drawn toMolly’s anticipation of it,
the Disneyland she’d assembled in
hermind,which is possibly themost
magical place there everwas.
Ink Global U.S. editor
ChrisWright
would liketoapologizetothe smallgirl in
theLittleMermaidwigwhomhe shoved
asideinorderto fist-bumpBaloothebear.
“I picturedMolly
as amiddle-
agedwoman,
lookingback
and thinking,
‘Well, thatwas
rubbish.’”
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