05-05-10
What I’m Reading Now: The Films Of Stephen King, by Michael R. Collings
It’s 4:30 AM and it’s cold on my street. Moments before, I’d kissed Shawn good-bye; in his groggy, sleep-addled voice, he’d bidden me a safe trip and then immediately collapsed back onto the pillow. I watched him a moment in the spill of hallway light cutting a thin swatch across the bed. I wouldn’t see him in nearly two weeks and I wanted his face fresh in my mind the whole time.
Out on the street, my thin jacket on. It’s supposed to be warmer in California, but not much. I packed jeans as well as shorts and now I’m wondering whether I shouldn’t have brought a heavier jacket. 4:30 and the cab I’d scheduled the night before isn’t here yet. 4:30 and already I’m worrying about things I can’t control. A minute later, the cab shows up, and the cabbie tells vaguely off-color jokes I’m not embarrassed to laugh at, and soon enough I’m in line at security, taking off my shoes and putting my laptop in the bucket.
I’m not sure what I was thinking when I booked this 6:00 AM flight. When I plan vacations, I try to maximize their potential. Get there early, come back late. I’m still not sure if this is smart or silly. One side of me completely agrees with this point of view. My frosted side wonders whether vacations are supposed to include words like maximize. Soon enough, I am taxiing down the runway in a JetBlue Airbus, clutching my newest copy of It in both hands, reading passages during takeoff because that’s what I’ve always done during takeoff. Some people pray during takeoff. Some people pretend to be blasé. I read paragraphs about a child-murdering psychotic clown-spider from outer space because it makes me feel safe. We all have our rituals.
I’ve been prepping for this vacation for a while now. I know I’m a latecomer to the Disney party, and I can’t yet shake the feeling that I should feel bad about that. It’s the same thing about not being aware of Stephen King at the height of his 80s popularity, or Springsteen when Bossmania was gripping the nation. I was alive when all this was happening; why wasn’t I paying attention? It’s not like my odd nostalgia for eras predating me. I could have gotten into this stuff, if I’d really wanted to. Or maybe I just have a need to feel bad about things that are way out of my control. That’s an analysis for later.
“This is your captain,” the calm voice above says, and I look up from my Doritos Munchie Mix. I’ve emptied the contents onto a napkin on my tray-table and made fastidious work out of separating the pretzels. The Doritos Munchie Mix is a heavenly mix of cheesy starch, but the interloping pretzels are the Devil’s work. “We’ll be landing somewhat earlier than expected, about twenty minutes or so. Sorry about the turbulence, folks. We’ve smoothed out and we look to be staying that way for the remainder of the trip. Enjoy the rest of your flight.”
I power up my iPod and check the time. It was currently noon in Cupertino, California, and it instantly became my goal to be inside Disneyland by 4:00. Tomorrow, my theme-park aficionado buddy Dave would be there to show me around. Following him in rapid succession would be my friends Josh and Tim and Vince and John K. and John H. and Rich and Reid and more and this would be my first and only chance to be at Disneyland alone. I want to take it.
We touch ground in California and LAX is huge and confusing and it’s a testament, I think, to my ease with travel that I don’t panic once. So often at home, I rely on friends to get me from point A to point B, and while most of them are perfectly fine with it, I know it’s a burden, however slight. But when I book a trip, especially a Disney trip, I know how things work for me rather than against me. Airports democratize people. A good portion of us is carless, and a good portion of us is traveling alone. LAX is huge and confusing, but it doesn’t want to be. It wants to help you, because that’s what airports are designed for. It tries, and eventually it succeeds. Months earlier, I’d booked a shuttle from LAX to Anaheim, and while it is a frothy exercise in tedium waiting for it, it eventually arrives and whisks me away. Things at once become better when the driver snaps off Rush Limbaugh in mid-rant. Nobody in the shuttle is into that. I plug in Springsteen and close my eyes.
When I open them, we are speeding down a highway, whose name I don’t know. Maybe it’s a freeway. Hell, it could be an access road. This is one of my more basic failings. Street names elude me. Highways are a mystery. What I notice, though, is palm trees. Palm trees on the side of the road. I’ve seen them in Florida but they aren’t native there. Nobody had to bring them to California; they just happened. It occurs to me that I’ve missed California maybe more than I’d let on.
Our big purple shuttle pulls up in front of a hotel adjacent to the one at which I’m staying. “It’s the construction,” the driver apologizes. “I can’t turn around in their parking lot.” Despite this, and the delay, and his unfortunate choice of talk radio, I tip the guy five bucks. From the curb, I can see the entrance to Disneyland and a weary version of joy is pinballing inside of me. I knew it was close. I hadn’t known it was this close.
I check in, only a little sad that the hotel lobby is just a hotel lobby. In my Disney World experiences, a hotel lobby is a paean to some bygone era or faraway place, with all the frills upon it. At the Carousel Inn and Suites, it’s just a hotel lobby. Kind of a small one. I don’t know if I’m expecting snarling malcontents to hurl my hotel key my way, but everyone at the desk is perfectly pleasant, and within moments I’m in my completely reasonable hotel room. Two beds, a shower, a sink, and – surprisingly – a fridge and a microwave. Which I pine for when I’m at Pop Century and which I don’t use even once here.
A quick shower and a change into clothes I didn’t travel in and I’m on the fifth-floor balcony. From my vantage point, I can see the sensual rise and slope of California Screamin’, the headlining rollercoaster at Disney’s California Adventure park. Mickey’s Fun Wheel is more in the foreground; though I’m not a Mickey Mouse fanatic, seeing Mickey’s face from where I am standing cements where I am. It strikes me as utterly fantastical that I can see these things from where I stand. Until right now, Disneyland has existed in books and online and in films and music. Now, it’s a tangible reality, so close. Why am I nervous?
I grab my backpack from the room and take the elevator down and within three minutes, I am standing under the diminutive sign: Disneyland Resort – meaning the Disneyland Park, Disney’s California Adventure, Downtown Disney, and all three Disney-owned hotels. All of it, right here, and all I need to do is walk over the threshold.
“I’m here,” I whisper to myself. “I can’t believe I’m really here.”
It is 2:30 in the afternoon. The sun is high in the sky and there is a smile upon my face.
I hold my breath and take a step forward.
No comments:
Post a Comment