d24: Look Closer

Beeep. Beeep. Beeep. That’s my alarm. It’s 4:00 AM and I’ve been asleep five hours. Almost. The moon’s still in the sky when I kiss my dude goodbye and head down into the street. Everything is painted in shadow, except those places where the streetlights crosshatch in brightness. My cab is waiting for me already, and bleary-eyed, I climb in and trust the man to deliver me to my gate on time. He doesn’t disappoint. Early mornings at the airport are glimpses into the duality of the human condition. The clerks are all pleasant and friendly, their smiles seemingly sincere, even as the sun is barely making its presence known over the control tower. The travelers, we weary masses, slouch toward seats, collapse into them and blink furiously at the dawn. I’m listening to Ernest Cline’s Ready Player One, read by Wil Wheaton, and I don’t have to see the light. It occurs to me that I’ll be doing this exact same thing tomorrow and I cringe a little. I’m not twenty anymore. Hell, I’m not thirty anymore. But I still THINK I'm eleven! We’re in the air and on the ground before I know it, perhaps because I’ve spent much of my flight drifting in and out of consciousness, my waking moments spent alternately enjoying the melodic bardsmanship of Wil Wheaton, Springsteen’s new album, and a whole bunch of Drive-By Truckers. I’ve entrusted my suitcase to the loving care of Disney’s Magical Express – they take it from the plane right to your hotel room – and I tumble into a seat on the motor coach that will whisk me magically to Pop Century. No, it’s not the Polynesian or the Boardwalk, or even Port Orleans French Quarter, but just because it’s Value doesn’t mean it isn’t home. It’s my first trip this year, but it’s my eighteenth time total at Disney World, so I’m settling into it in ways I never anticipated. The place still has the capacity to thrill me, excite me, affect me in ways that no other place can … but my general experience is now one of comfortable bliss. When the coach drops me off in front of Pop, I stand there a moment and my entire body breathes a long sigh of relief. I don’t relax well. I work four jobs in part because I have to and in part because I want to. Keeping busy is not just what I do, it’s who I am. And what Disney World (and Disneyland) does for me at this stage of my life is give me a rare opportunity to just chill out. I almost want to say it gives me the chance to just be me, but hell, this is all me. And I’m not saying that my vacations are all about relaxy simmer down times – my buddy Joe can attest to that – but the more Disney World and I grow to know each other, the more comfortable we are with each other. This developing sense of ease with the parks allows for something I had previously thought impossible: I’m engaging the nuance. There’s an irritating internet adage that goes “Disneyland is for purists; Disney World is for tourists.” It’s a lie, and in more ways than one. First: sure, purists may love Disneyland, but guess who else loves Disneyland? SoCal locals who have annual passes and care about the rich historical tapestry about as much as they care about Jamba Juice at the mall. Never was this more apparent than when I went to go see the Disneyland version of The Magic, the Memories, and You, and what little crowd there was rolled their eyes and wouldn’t shut their stupid hipster mouths about how cheesy it all was. Second: Walt Disney World historians are a fervent bunch. I mean, Classic EPCOT Center alone brings out both the drooling fanboys and the dedicated researchers like no other. The longer my history with WDW grows, the more I come to realize that inside me, there’s room for both on either coast: I have become a tourist and a purist. Evidence! I shower and change quickly and then I’m on a bus to Hollywood Studios, stepping out to Hollywood Boulevard and allowing myself to be enveloped by the atmosphere. Engaging the nuance: I look up and down, into windows and at tile-work, down at this street in 1930s Hollywood I will never know and yet visit four times a year. For the first time ever, I glance up at the windows above the Hollywood & Vine Restaurant and I see a listing for Eddie Valiant, Private Detective; a few windows down, there’s a Roger Rabbit-sized hole in the Venetian blinds. It’s always been there, just waiting for me to look up and see it. These details are everywhere – everywhere! – and while there are fast rides and dance parties and princesses and Vinylmation for the people who just want those parts of Disney, there’s all this smaller stuff, hidden stuff, that rewards those of us willing to look closer, and more often. Of course, immediately after snapping that picture I dash down Sunset Boulevard and into the Single Rider Line at Rock N Rollercoaster. I mean, a man can like details and nuance but he also wants to go from 0 to 57 MPH in 2.3 seconds. And then he wants to head on over to the Tower of Terror and plunge two, three, four times in a row. On my last ride, a teenage girl with an apparently heretofore-unexplored horror of heights and/or dropping issued forth a ululating shriek I would not experience again until the following night around 3:30 AM (don’t worry; we’ll get there). Now, there’s a sympathetic person in all of us who worries about this poor girl and hopes she won’t be traumatized forever. And then there’s the lizard part of our brains, the part that drives us to be scared for fun in the first place, that absolutely relishes this kind of screaming. Everyone in the car starts screaming along, some of us (me) laughing, but I assure you it was not malicious. Just hilarious! When the ride comes to an end, everyone in the elevator turns to the girl and she’s laughing a little from reaction. “You okay?” I ask. She assures me she’s okay, just a little shaken, and then a woman in the back says, “You made the ride better.” And the girl laughs some more, and thanks her, and everything’s chilly in the fake state of California, 1939. A short lunch later (a hot dog from Fairfax Fare Shawn introduced me to last time he was here with me; it’s got macaroni and cheese and truffle oil on it, what the yum) and then I head out, back to the room to get a little rest before I head out to Epcot and start my trip proper. Back at my room, I run into Tom and Doug, fresh from Seaworld (OFF PROPERTY GASP!) I lie down for a little while, then get packed up and head out to Epcot. There is a Joezer awaiting me! We text each other pictures. Which aren't text. So we ... picture each other? That sounds like imagination instead of technology. Hmm. Alan Alda would know, but he's dead. (Update: Alan Alda isn't dead. He also doesn't know.) So, here’s the deal: Joe and I are big fans of surprising each other on these trips, especially food-wise. On my first trip ever with him, he set up a dinner at the 50s Prime Time because he knew I’d love it (and he was right; the waitress called me Scooter, which was once Bruce Springsteen’s nickname, and I was in Kevin Heaven), and at the Crystal Palace because he knows how much I love Winnie-the-Pooh. This time, I was double-surprising him. A few months back, I’d asked him to provide me a list of table service places he wanted to try out but had never eaten at (or hadn’t eaten at in years). He did so. Around the same time, my friend Betsy, a Cast Member, explained that even Annual Passholders could sign up for the Disney Dining Plan, a piece of information that was all new and no one had ever told me before (especially not my buddy Paul, who, if he had, certainly didn’t attempt to share the information whilst I was entranced by Stacy’s Must-Dos on Disney TV, and would certainly not have been of sound mind and body). Betsy also helped us with the reservations – my first time outside the comfort zone of my travel agent, Michelle – so that she, Joe and I, and Doug and Tom were all together in the same block of rooms. Look closer at any successful trip and there’s a person beyond you at the gears and pulleys, making sure everything works smoothly so you don’t have Trip Panic. This time, Betsy was that person, and I am forever indebted to her for making it such a wonderful time. I text Joe with a picture of his room key as I head out. Two seconds later he texts back. “Wha…?? You put us on the dining plan?” Oh by the way guess what?! There’s a thing on the room key that totally says DDP (Disney Dining Plan) and because I’m a novelist with a keen eye for detail I totally missed it and ruined the surprise because dur. DUR! I find Joe sitting on a planter inside the main Epcot gates, and there’s very little more adorable than my tall buddy Joe sitting somewhere where his feet don’t touch the ground. Spaceship Earth rises majestically up from the entrance plaza, dwarfing him and us and everything around for miles. If Pop is coming home, then Spaceship Earth is coming to Mecca; I never feel less than a sense of wonder standing beneath it, never less than a dramatic humbling. By its nature and its purpose, Spaceship Earth is, to me, the central figure in Disney’s past, present, and future. It celebrates the history and the ongoing ease of human communication; well, I met most of my Disney friends on the Internet, and then came here to find them in real time. Here Joe and I stand, having met in the real world before developing our friendship online. For these reasons and others, Spaceship Earth is the quintessence of my Disney experience. Or maybe this is. “Hey, we have some time before dinner!” I say, leading Joe into Mouse Gear to look for more vintage Epcot shirts, which they’re probably holding out on until the Epcot 30th Anniversary, coming later this year. Then: “Oh hey! Let’s go grab FastPasses for Soarin’! That’s exactly what we should do right now.” Joe looks at me. “Wait. You want to take me to The Land right now, ten minutes before you said our dinner was?” “Um.” “So we’re going to Garden Grill!?” “No.” I pause. “Okay, maybe.” I pause again. “Joe it rotates!” “You goober.” I have never been to the Garden Grill, located on the second floor of the Land Pavilion, where Soarin’ is, and Living With the Land, and the best counter service on property, Sunshine Seasons. Joe hasn’t been since he was very young … and that’s the other thing about Epcot: all of my memories of this place start five years ago. Joe’s go back to the beginning. He rode Horizons. He rode World of Motion. He was here the year the park opened, and he actually has a history with this place that’s brand-new to me. By virtue of its long existence, Disney World can be everything to everyone. Over a family style meal of meat and salad and chicken and fish and oh my God did I mention the meat, Joe and I closed the gap of distance our friendship challenges, and the gap of years between our Disney World experiences. Put differently: I miss Joe when he goes away, and because we both love Disney as much as we do, there’s always a place to go where neither of us has to be away long. MEAT. We also met characters, because OMG characters love us! Farmer Mickey, you guys! When we emerge, Epcot is silky dark. We scurry to France, where Joe sips a Grand Marnier slushie in honor of a buddy who’s had a terrible week, and though the temptation to hang about waiting for IllumiNations to begin is strong, we beat feet back to the Create parking lot. It’s early yet, but early is about to become the watchword. It all begins before dawn.