What do Americans do when they need to give themselves a pat on the back and a treat after an achievement? They go to Disneyland…and if my childhood memories serve me correctly, this should work out to be an experience that compares favorably with, say, a trip to Valhalla for a Viking, or maybe the attainment of enlightenment for a Buddhist.
Well done Walt, you were a marketing genius, because the trip, even in cool weather and with very short queues is actually more akin to Christian purgatory, more on that in this post on what I understand the employees of Disney refer to as ‘Mousewitz’.
Onto the hotel: the cheap and not so cheerful All-Star movie resort. We managed to find a room for $49+Tax, due to the slump in demand for Dantesque torments in this global slowdown. We were greeted by the camp guards at the gate, and our papers were found to be in order, so we progressed to the guest processing hall.
Thankfully quiet, the vast hall with queue cordons, hinted at a better times (for the mouse, not the guest) and checkin was effected with a modicum of inefficiency in about 15minutes for four adults and four children.
We walked past the enormouse so called ‘food’ court where our morning and evening rations of sugar, fat and caffeine would be distributed, and onto our room. The room we got was housed in a block which Herbie had apparently crashed into in a desperate failed escape attempt.
The room was smelly, worn and small, with a traditional American TV upon which I couldn’t watch the election results without getting a headache and with closed captions that couldn’t be removed. Yuk.
The beds were surprisingly large, but not in a good way: What they lacked in width they made up for in height. They had neglected to supply the cot sides to keep the children from falling, adding to my rising irritation. The pillows needed to be replaced with towels from the bathroom, because they were crappy.
The shower was weak, the hairdryer would only run for 20 seconds at a time. I could keep bitching but I think you get the picture.
Rising bright and early (the clock hadn’t been changed to reflect the end of summer time and fooled me), I went over to the so called food court, to begin the process of poisoning myself. Enroute I met some groundsmen and asked for an update on who had won the election (I had forgone the excitement of watching the removal of the GOP from high office to avoid a migraine). Their pallid forlorn expressions and glum ‘Well I guess Obama’ let me know they had a sneaker for the Palin good looks and a firm hand on the tiller.
The fact that the eight year run of ‘Hail to the Chimp’ was finally over lifted my spirits high enough that I was able to go on.
One vile, intestine halting, overpriced breakfast later (stay away from the mouse shaped waffles) it was time to move onto the park, and we hopped on the bus to the Magic Kingdom. The memory of the staff in the food court stayed with me. What did the Mouse do to them to make them so miserable? Were they free to leave? Then it struck me: they were probably getting the same food at a discount and eating it every day! I hear he doesn’t pay well and had probably made his own little poverty trap:
1, Work for Disney for, say, a summer
2. Eat the food
3. Become absolutely miserable
4. Fail interviews for better jobs
5. See point 1
In the evening we tried to get a recommendation for a good restaurant outside Mousewitz. Blank looks and referral to the Food Court. I rest my case.
And onto the magic kingdom…
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