Published: March 5, 2026.
There is a black hole in the bottom of America, by the name of Walt Disney World. It has sucked all of Orlando, Florida past the point of no return, and is exerting an inexorable pull upon the rest of the country. My girlfriend and I are just two more souls making a secular pilgrimage to this Mecca in the central Florida swamps. She’s never been, except when she was too young to remember, and is here for Star Wars, drinking around the world in EPCOT, and Harry Potter. That last one is in Universal Studios, where we’ll also be spending a day.
I haven’t been here in over a decade and am trying to be optimistic about this upcoming trip. I’m not a cynic by nature, though in recent times I’ve found the axiom of “I love people and hate everything else” useful in explaining my worldview succinctly. The previous months of planning this trip have not necessarily increased my anticipation, as the bureaucracy of airplanes, hotels and itineraries is somewhat dismal. Similarly, the previous years in which I’ve become a casual fan of theme-park-media-analysis youtube channels such as Jenny Nicholson and Defunctland have soured my opinions of this hobby as a whole.
So it is with great pleasure to report that when I returned to Pittsburgh, I had a thoroughly good time on my vacation. In the past I’ve tended to be somewhat of a grouchy individual on trips, but I managed to brush aside inconveniences and pain points in order to have a great experience. “Save it for your blog post,” I tell myself when encountering something I’m ideologically opposed to, then I continue to have fun.
The tales which I recount will not be the photo worthy highlights, like how good Blue Milk With Rum is in Star Wars: Galaxy’s Edge. Nor will it be a venting of every thing that bugged me, like how each Disney hotel room is equipped with a mouse-eared iPad that is always listening to conversations so it can tell you the weather. That all happened, of course, but I don’t think you’d find it all that enjoyable to read, and would much rather spin a yarn about the strange experiences I had living on that alien world for the better part of a week. Enjoy.
Anonymity is a blessing on vacation. I’ve just failed for a second time in getting someone to take a picture of Katrina and I: the first was a character actor whose job it was to be in photos rather than take them; the second, a blind tourist. The embarrassment lingers in my head for a while, but the knowledge that I’m a nameless face to be quickly forgotten by these people is no small comfort.
Employees around the parks have nametags, naturally, but it’s a sort of impersonal identity, like how the TSA and park security have my name, a picture of me, and my fingerprint, but no real knowledge of me in any way that matters. I’ve always felt it was invasive to look at a retail employee’s nametag and call them by name, when they don’t know yours.
I do happen to learn one name this trip, though. We’re in the Harry Potter zone, in the Olivander’s Wand Shop ceremony show after nearly an hour of waiting in line for it to open. 30 people are crammed into a dark closet three times as tall as it is wide and the non-character employee uses gender-neutral pronouns in directing us to fill the space as efficiently as possible. The other employee, in full Wizard garb, selects a teenager named Sydney to be the lucky participant to choose a wand / be chosen by a wand. I remember her name because the costumed Wizard repeats it every sentence, really hammering home that this is a “personal experience”.
For the other 29 of us who do not get to have a personal experience, but can vicariously enjoy Sydney’s, we get some time to stand and think. I mean no disrespect to the Wizard, who is one of the only people in-character we see this vacation, but the show is a little underwhelming. After a few magical mishaps of rattling cabinets and flashing lights, Sydney has been chosen by her correct wand, Ash wood and phoenix feather or something like that. A spotlight illuminates her, a fan sends a gust of wind at her, and the music swells triumphantly. I try in vain to discern if she’s actually having a good time. At that age I think I would be more anxious than anything else.
The show lets out and we are released into the adjoining gift shop, free to pursue our own wizarding experience of picking a wand off the shelf and buying it. As Katrina and I shop, we discuss whether we think Sydney got to keep the wand or if they still made her parents pay for it.
The service industry in general is weighing heavily on my mind this trip. Nobody loves working retail, and I can’t imagine a tourist clientele and Florida heat improves the situation (it’s “only” 80 degrees in February though). Everyone in this city works for a theme park and the transactional nature of our relationships has never felt so tangible. Service workers are exceedingly nice here and I’m a little unnerved, feeling like a despot rather than an honored guest. When the flashy attractions get downsized and practices get more predatory, it’s the kindness of human beings that fills in the gaps. I wish to believe the empathy coming from them is genuine, and hope that I’m reflecting it back to them in earnest. These aren’t the environments conducive for a heart-to-heart with strangers, or to inquire about corporate mandated politeness, so we settle for tipping anyone who lets us, and avoid making their jobs harder.
I’m wandering through the streets of recreated cities. Everyone is milling about outside and in a wonderful spirit, a far cry from the moods in the places these facades represent. What’s the secret? What’s stopping everyone from exploring the real world with whimsy and joy? … oh it’s wealth, isn’t it.
The French cafe is staffed by real live French people, imported mainly from former French colonies. It’s a move that feels tokenizing but I can’t really imagine a better solution. I’ve put in genuine effort since high school to learn French and have never talked to a native speaker. The customer in front of me is speaking in fluent French to the worker behind the counter and both seem to be getting along great. I want to order the Pissaladière but am nervous to pronounce the word wrong, even more so because it has “piss” in the name. My Pissaladière is great, and well worth the fact that I avoided eye contact while ordering so I didn’t see if I was being judged for being a tourist. My black coffee is terrible and all future drinks on this trip are iced and sweet. Who was I trying to impress, getting black coffee on vacation? I’ve put in genuine effort since high school to learn French and will never talk to a native speaker.
No living creature has suffered more than Figment, the purple dragon serving as one of EPCOT’s main mascots, alongside Spaceship Earth (aka “EPCOT Ball”). You can find Figment’s likeness merchandized on shirts, backpacks, pins, mickey ears, custom crocs, and more, sold not just in EPCOT but anywhere around the WDW property. His claim to fame is the “Journey Into Imagination” dark ride (i.e. slow moving carts and animatronics) which has seen two downgrades- sorry “re-designs”, since its inception. It is the worst ride I will be on this trip and I love it. Underneath the abandonment, I think I can see what this once was, when it was taken care of and nurtured. You can tell it’s an older ride, back when EPCOT was about an optimistic sci-fi view of the future, because of how it ends with a play-place for children, providing interactive exhibits and activities, instead of just a gift shop.
I see Figment as a creature kept on life support. The ride which spawned him has a miniscule attendance, almost never having a line throughout the day, and for good reason as the ride is just not very good. However, I see people with Figment merch everywhere in the park. Is it because people like him as an original character? Do they have fond memories of the ride’s earlier incarnations?
Alone in the corner of the deserted play-place is someone in a Figment mascot suit, behind an ambitiously sized queue corral to get to him. I have already decided I am in love with this dragon and we get a picture with him immediately. I’m starstruck. I depart with a beaming grin on my face to purchase a Hawaiian shirt with a Figment print for $69.99 plus tax. I consider it a charitable donation to keep this ride open a little longer, and perhaps to someday see an iteration with more than 3 motorized statues I could only generously call “animatronics”.
As I wear my purple patterned shirt the remainder of the day, I ponder if this is exactly the outcome the Disney executives are hoping for. It doesn’t really matter how bad the ride gets, the merch will still be purchased. It’s only by external research in the airport on the way back, that I was aware of what things used to be like, and perhaps Figment will become an abstract character with no ride at all in the future.
The Gran Fiesta Tour Starring The Three Caballeros is a boat ride within a restaurant in EPCOT’s Mexican pavilion. It’s based on a 1944 Disney film, but I don’t know this at the time. Neither, I expect, do most of the patrons in line, who constitute some of the drunkest individuals you or I have ever seen. The Mexican pavilion is on the border of the world showcase, so if you plan to drink around the world it’s either your entry or exit point, depending on your direction. For us it’s our first stop, but for these other guys it’s clearly their last stop, maybe ever.
Although I love this ride (dark ride + boats = unbeatable combo), I cannot help but to notice the abundance of screens here. At this point I think every ride has some form of digital screen integrated into it, but here they are so unbelievably bright. It’s difficult to focus my eyes on anything else in this ride, as the TVs playing clips from The Three Caballeros (1944) divert my attention away from the fun environments our boat is cruising through. I think this is actually by design, as most of the attraction is lacking any truly elaborate props. I guess digital technology has easier maintenance than building any new analog stuff.
I have plenty of time to ponder this as the employees are having difficulty loading passengers, causing a traffic jam in the ride’s exit, where I hear Donald Duck repeat “adios amigos!” every twenty seconds.
“That cost more than your daddy and me’s house we lived in”, says a woman kneeling next to her kid. We’re in Disney Springs, a company-owned mall of sorts, in a jewelry store before a massive bedazzled castle. Cinderella’s castle I think. The Disney Castle, you know the one. It’s several feet tall and there isn’t a square nanometer absent of twinkling gems, and I’m wondering how much that could be. 70k? 80k? I’ve no idea how nice of a house this family owns. The family moves away from their position occupying the price tag. 225k, well alright, plenty of houses are cheaper than that. I read the sign again. This castle costs $225,000???
A parent is explaining the plot of Ratatouille (2007) to their kid in the line for the Ratatouille ride. We’re here first thing in the morning, so there’s not much waiting around, the aforementioned conversation being just enough to distract me, though we’re sitting on the ground to minimize any time spent standing in preparation for the long day ahead. Is it weird to be going on the Ratatouille ride if you’ve never seen the movie? Not that you have to have seen every Disney movie as homework to come here, but I wonder how this kid would feel if it were later in the day, when this ride has the longest line in the park, and all the waiting was to see some rat for 5 minutes. Maybe Remy has transcended his source material and exists for these kids as iconography, devoid of context. I suppose Disney does a lot of PR for each character to make them family-friendly and likeable, so you can want a shirt with their face regardless of how much you know about them.
“Hey, where are all the Nazis?” is not a thought I had the first time I saw the Indiana Jones Stunt Spectacular as a preteen, nor was it a thought I was expecting to have this go-around. All the bad guys the stunt doubles are punching in this show (which is fantastic by the way) are clothed in nondescript 20th century military uniforms. Though I’m not mandating fascist attire in my family theme park, I am concerned the guiding principle for these things is what sells the best. It reminds me of how the First Order in the Star Wars sequel trilogy are a much more demographically diverse crowd than their Original Trilogy Imperial predecessors. It sounds good on paper, but takes away from the whole “the bad guys are bad because they are racist” angle. Alternative explanation: I should not have been drinking this early in the day.
I would be remiss if I neglected to mention the Moana: Journey of Water exhibit. It’s a walking garden with informative signs about the water cycle and fountains with motion sensors so the water “responds” to you. For once I am not cynical about technology and think this is awesome. One gurgling pool shoots water in a larger geyser the more people (up to 7) you get in a line to throw up your hands in sync, incentivizing strangers to work together. I direct all my mental energies to the preservation of this attraction and for it not to be a temporary novelty.
The employee scanning tickets for FastPasses at this ride has an unnaturally high pitched voice, as if he were doing a Mickey Mouse impression. Is he doing it on purpose? Probably not, we’re at Universal Studios today, waiting for the E.T. ride. We pass by the employee as he squeaks out another jolly greeting to park guests and I think to ask Katrina if she noticed what I noticed. The words are frozen in my throat as I consider a full day of park operations, with thousands of guests shuffling along the line, speculating and commenting to each other about this employee the moment he is out of earshot, the conversation crawling backwards at the same speed the guests move forwards. I’m not meaning to be judgmental, but I’m sure the gawking vultures attending 1920’s circus sideshows thought the same thing. I worry this employee lives a life where strangers he meets feel the need to remark upon his unusual voice and he recycles the same canned responses.
A man in the crowd in front of me turns around for a moment, the only face amidst a sea of heads turned away. The glimpse I get immediately makes me think of a Star Trek alien species, one of the ones that’s a regular person with some light face prosthetics. With dawning horror, I realize this man is a burn victim, and has already returned to looking ahead with the rest of the crowd. I feel like a monster and try to will the thought back into non-existence, to no avail. Ahead of me, the man’s daughter clings onto his only arm. My heart hurts.
My attention on this crowded bus is unwillingly focused on the blond woman to my left holding her blond daughter who is screaming and begging to be let go. She pleads to be released, her mother calmly replies “I cannot let you go, you would fall and hurt yourself”, and the scene repeats verbatim without pause until we reach our destination what feels like an hour later. In a marvelous foil to this heroic display of patience is another blond girl (same age), and her mother (also blond, also same age). They are standing just over a foot away from us, and while Sitting-Blond-Girl is trying so hard to be released so that she can fall and hit her head, Standing-Blond-Girl watches the scene in utter silence and I imagine her thinking, “see? I wouldn’t do something like that. Look at how well-behaved of a child I am”. Furthermore…wait. Wait, this baby is STARING at me! He is looking right at me. He doesn’t know shame. When I make eye contact with someone I look away, but no one has taught this baby that performance. I love him. He croaks like an animal but makes no facial expression to signal that another bus displeases him. Is it the Donald Duck decal on the opposing Disney bus he finds so distasteful? The two duos next to me go entirely unnoticed by the baby. His head turns in their direction, but his eyes don’t focus, though he sees me watching it all unfold. None of the parents of these 3 kids say a word to one another on this bus ride, and I am left to speculate what they must be thinking about their child and the others at this moment. What it must take to raise a kid.
Two boys of perhaps 5 and 6 years old are hitting a Liturgical prayer pose with such fervent devotion I am astounded there is no Italian painter nearby using these two as reference models. The idol of their fixation is a phone silently playing spider-man cartoons, held absentmindedly in their mother’s hand. I wonder what my parents would be doing if I were being raised in this era.
I’m not sure what these kids will get out of the ride we’re standing (or kneeling) in line for. To help park guests stay entertained, there’s an animatronic which can talk to guests further down the line; no one is talking to it, and it eventually stops speaking, evidently bored. I’m not sure how entertaining or engaging 3-dimensional attractions are to the mind of a kid hooked on digital technology. Maybe that’s the real reason why all of these rides just shake a cart around in front of a screen to simulate motion, it’s an arms race.
The uber flashes by other cars in the rain as the driver is explaining on the phone to a friend that he can’t talk right now. I learn later that Katrina is terrified of the car hydroplaning and is holding on for dear life, but I’m zoned out and my mind is elsewhere now. I see an advertisement I had caught a glimpse of earlier, but in the dark, with a spotlight on it, I get a proper look in slow motion. DISNEY SOUVENIRS. T-SHIRTS 2 DOLLARS. SWIMWEAR. This is not official WDW merchandise, if the comic sans font, plain blue-text-on-red-background, and location right off the 100 lane interstate didn’t tip you off.
I cannot help but to find it tragic. Not that people are unwilling/unable to pay the ludicrous markup for baubles within park property, but the rigged nature of the game itself. The primary feature, the central pillar of the land I affectionately call WaDisWo, is the gift shops. So either you can buy nothing except admission tickets and grab something at comic-sans-shop on the drive home to appease your kids, or you can accept the bloodletting and hand The Mouse a blank check to worry about once you get back to reality. It’s lose-lose, but either way, you still have to go. Come on, its Disney World.
Dimly lit shop (it’s evil-themed) and I’m worried about bumping into something and breaking it. The evil-themed cashier, a white guy with long hair (hey wait a minute-) has the privilege of being the one employee who gets to be deadpan. A mother and her two sons are standing by the T-shirt rack, haggling. The father isn’t in this scene but it sounds like he’s in the general vicinity. I never see the dads in these situations and think there’s some commentary in that, but it eludes me in the moment.
One of the kids is holding a shirt off the rack, presenting a strong case for his desire for the item. His brother is off to the side, either a silent hype man, or neutral observer. His mom refutes his argument with an itemized list of what has already been acquired this vacation, while the child remains unshaken in his conviction that this additional souvenir will be the one to bring him joy. I empathize with his confusion of being denied a treat; the main ride in this park fluctuates between a 60 and 120 minute wait time, and the dozen or so gift shops have no lines to get in. To him, this IS the park experience, and he continues to debate with the conviction of someone completely oblivious to all things Finance. Have they heard about the comic sans shop?
Different shop, different park, different day. Same family demographic, complete with missing dad (I swear these guys are drawn to the nearest lightsaber display like moths to a flame, noses pressed against the glass while their family is off doing whatever). I catch only a snippet of conversation, “Let’s just check the pins quick” the woman says, leading the way, to which the children reply an energetic “Ok!” and the trio hustle along. I appreciate how enthusiastic this woman is about her pins.
Another woman who does not fool around about her pin collection is Katrina Sandra Strayton (and if you didn’t know her middle name, you’re welcome). Every gift shop has a wall of Disney Pins, and you had better believe that we assessed every single one. There is a trading ecosystem baked into the market of Disney Pins: plenty of blind bags with a random pin, “starter sets” with a lanyard and 2 sets of duplicate pins to incentivize trading the extras, and numerous stations around the parks of “take a pin, leave a pin” boards in case you can’t find park guests who want to trade. I don’t see this trading in action, as it’s not really Katrina’s cup of tea to barter with strangers, but I like the concept. It doesn’t seem overtly malicious and I can envision people of all ages using pin trading as an excuse to make new friends.
Some of these pins are TWENTY dollars? I take it back, maybe this is a scam too.
I’m at the LEGO Store again in Disney Springs, and the huge LEGO sea serpent in the lake is still there, just like I remember it as a kid, when the place was still called Downtown Disney. The store’s interior has lost the charm I remember, and it looks like any other LEGO store you’d see in a mall. A small ramp outside with some parts to build cars is the only thing that makes this place “interactive”.
I conclude that my wonder is gone because I’m already up to date on what the latest LEGO sets are, as I check the LEGO website semi-regularly, so nothing here is a surprise. As a society we’ve sort of figured out online shopping, at least the most efficient ways to search for, purchase and deliver things. If the primary thing to do here is shop, what did everyone leave the house and go to Orlando for?
Mythos is Universal’s most esteemed restaurant, themed around Greek mythology with a subterranean cave interior. As we head to our table near the back, I unearth yet another old memory. I was at Mythos many years ago (this I already knew), but as we walk through the restaurant I realize I remember the exact table we sat at. The feeling is truly uncanny. They had their “Mythos Burger” with pulled pork on it, and for years after, hopefully to this very day, my dad refers to any burger with pulled pork this way. I don’t see it on the menu tonight, and feel betrayed. I’m vegetarian, it’s not like I was going to order it anyway, but still.
How much value am I gaining from this trip because of nostalgia? I’ve got an imperfect recollection, but that might be for the best, lest I compare and contrast every detail. It seems an unnatural torment for someone to come to Orlando to relive memories through their children, and I’m grateful Katrina was the driving force in us coming here, not my own memories.
My meal at Mythos is absolutely delicious. #1 for a reason. I would try everything on the cocktail menu, but restaurants in Universal only serve one alcoholic drink per patron, lest everyone vomit on all the rollercoasters. Someone tells us to avoid the front-right seat on the Harry Potter Diagon Alley ride since it makes you significantly more likely to throw up. We aren’t riding coasters, but I appreciate the tip.
Nighttime again. It’s raining and Katrina is wearing her crocs with zero traction, so it’s taking both of our complete concentration to make sure she doesn’t slip on any of the wooden bridges. It doesn’t help that we can’t see a thing; I figure the sun is usually out until the park closes so there’s not much need for overhead lighting here, but it’s winter and gets dark around 6:30. A lone child saunters across the bridge towards us, on a quest of his own. I’m positive he’s got face paint on, pretty sure it’s green, and it’s anyone’s guess as to what character or design covers his entire face. His trajectory is unaltered by the two of us shuffling along at a snail’s pace, and mumbles “Sixseven” as he passes, as if in some hypnotic trance.
What is the point of bringing your stroller-bound child to a theme park? They aren’t going to remember any of it, as evidenced by Katrina’s lack of memory of this place. I joke to her that her parents lied about taking her to Disney as a three year old so they wouldn’t have to take her when she was older, but there’s no joking about the DROVES of strollers here.
If your child is too young to be walking with you, they should not be allowed to touch a cell phone. Kill me if you disagree.
We’re on the Hogwarts Express which runs between the two Harry Potter parks. Two couples are loudly having parallel conversations with one another in our tiny train car of 8, but as a member of one of the two silent couples, I’m not too bothered since it’s our second time riding the train and I generally know what I’m missing. I’m about to get tired of hearing the Loud Ones say “have you rode this ride? I rode this ride! I liked this ride too! Have you rode this other ride?”, when I experience yet another small moment of humanity.
As Loud Man #1 tells Loud Man #2 how often he comes to Universal (weekly), the phone in his lap gets a text, and I see his lockscreen upside-down. It’s Aang and Katara, from Avatar: The Last Airbender, but fanart, not in the show’s style. A second before his phone screen goes dark again, I see that in the picture, Aang is drawn with a beard, much the same as the beard Loud Man #1 has. Connecting the dots and realizing how this man got a piece of commissioned art for himself and his partner is a highlight of my day. I never speak to him and never learn his name.
We’re on the Skyliner, a delightful contraption that carries boxes of people throughout the air with efficiency and grace. Not only is it my favorite mode of transport this trip, it also runs only to Hollywood Studios and EPCOT, the two parks we’re visiting, and among the hotels it connects to, ours is the central hub. I did not plan for this in our travel itinerary, it’s just a great coincidence that it goes to the exact places we need to go and nowhere else.
Our gondola (the official name for the box) is occupied with other people, which is somewhat rare, usually we get a gondola to ourselves. In mid-air, over swampland and highway, it lurches to a halt. The woman sitting across from me starts to panic and says something to the extent of requesting someone talk to her. I tell her that the gondola has stopped a few times for us in the past, make idle chit-chat, and poke some fun at The Mouse for having such a fancy transit system that doesn’t work properly.
When we start to move again, likely no more than a minute of stoppage, she thanks me with shocking sincerity in her voice. Her guard is down, but I’m still so disconnected from empathy that I give a very dismissive Oh Yeah No Problem.
Seeing this, she returns to Vacation Mode. “Not that my BROTHER was any help!” she jokes, friendly elbowing the man next to her in the side. Oh, her brother. I guess I assumed any two adults travelling together were married, not that it was a relevant factor in the conversation. Still, bullet dodged.
We get off the Skyliner but the whole experience stays in my mind. I wanted to say something more heartfelt, but we’re strangers. I’ve no idea what I would even say to her.
“I smell bacon everywhere I go,” an older tourist says to me unprompted, as we sit on the same bench. This is the most virtuous thing a human being could do for me and I am filled with envy; however, I’m worried the top of my head will get skin cancer as I’m wearing mickey ears instead of a hat, and my springtime allergies have started, so I cannot put together even the most basic response to this observation. I let out a laugh that sounds more like a hiccup, and our interaction is concluded.
Fantasmic! is Hollywood Studio’s nighttime show, and it’s just not that good. Sure the outdoor amphitheater is nice, and there’s some good production on the effects, music, characters etc, but there’s a gimmick where a wall of mist is sprayed towards the audience and clips from Disney movies are projected on the ethereal screen. It’s actually quite nice, but fully 20 minutes of this 30 minute show is watching recycled bits of Disney films edited together instead of, I don’t know, actually using this huge stage equipped with every state-of-the-art production tool to put on a show? I watched Fantasia (1940) in preparation for this trip to get me in the spirit and this show is burning through a lot of the goodwill I was working up for The Mouse. It doesn’t help that we’re sitting right in the front and getting bombarded with a continuous stream of water, but I have no doubt that the Fantasmic! show is a shell of its former self; running a video of Top 10 Nostalgic Disney Moments is far cheaper and easier than training actors and choreographing stunts in this area designed for the latter.
It is in this unlikely environment that I find the highlight of the night, quite possibly the entire trip. All of the effects budget in the world is no match for the sheer enthusiasm of the woman cheering behind us. I don’t get a good look, but she sounds about my age, at least not a kid, and she is screaming along to EVERY sound that is made by Mickey The Mouse for each one of the precious seconds an actor in a mascot suit is running around the stage. Not just the “Oh Boy!”s, but any whoop, shriek or howl is made in perfect sync by the two of them.
A lesser man might categorize her as a “Disney Adult”, that she has been to this show too many times for her own good, but I am delighted and invigorated by the passion on display here. Not only is my evening rescued, but I am caught up in the magic as well. Not of the show’s magic of course, but the audience’s, and I am hollering just as loud. When Mickey is in danger, I am begging for his life to be spared as if he were my own flesh and blood. I cannot recite the show noise-for-noise as the person behind me, and have admittedly been getting a bit too rambunctious, but I just finished my second 18 dollar cocktail that I dipped an additional 10 dollars on, and have been waiting in lines for the better part of the past 3 hours. This is the catharsis my heart needs.
Headed back again at the end of the day. Is it by Skyliner or bus today, or by car or plane? Doesn’t matter. Katrina’s feet hurt, as she is apt to remind me, and we’re leaving a few pounds heavier than we entered, be it from food or souvenirs. She checks her Apple Watch - 8 miles today, give or take. Did I learn anything? I always feel like I have to have learned something.
Our pool at the Caribbean Beach Resort is lively and flourishing as we check out of the hotel. It’s themed like a crumbling Jamaican fortress, outfitted with cannons that spray water and a period-accurate water slide. For the first time this trip, I see kids having fun, laughing and capital-P-Playing. Play is an unbelievably important thing to me, and it’s equal parts beautiful to find it here, and heartbreaking to realize how absent it was in the actual gated parks. I think whether the activity space in Figment’s ride was vacant because of how run-down and dingy the place was; or, because it was so deserted one family had left before another entered, there was never anyone to play with and the exhibits got boring without a friend. It’s fun to hang out at the main pool around others, but when Katrina and I visit one of the smaller pools at night and it’s just us, we splash around for 10, 15 minutes and leave. Cultivating that environment for Play requires effort, love and other people, and I can see how running a gift shop is the path of least resistance.
Same scene, about 10 minutes forward in time. Two kids are playing ping pong at a table. They’re too uncoordinated to return the volley after a serve, but as the ping pong ball goes into the bushes, one suggests they play to 20 points, the other instead deciding 21. That’s so many points. I remember when that was my brother and me.
Would you rather have a film-accurate lightsaber that you transport in bubble wrap to display on your wall, or a 10 dollar plastic lightsaber with an LED that burns out in a week, but with which you can swing at your siblings full force? I’ve seen kids with both this week.
One last story. I’m 10 again, give or take a few years, and maybe at Disney, though certainly on a trip somewhere. There’s sand beneath my toes. A boy my age has a toy sword and asks to duel. I don’t think he spoke English but the offer was understood implicitly. He hands me his sword, using the sheath as a makeshift blade for himself, and I form a memory more permanent in my mind than anything else that vacation.
Hey there, this last section was not part of the original post, but in a newsletter I sent out after posting this, I included some vacation images to prove that while I had these complicated thoughts during my trip, I still had a good time. I’ve included them here for archival purposes, have fun matching up the pics to their associated vignette(s) in the main post :)
