This is my phone alarm. It’s like a clarion. It’s about 2:00 PM in the afternoon and I stir, groggily shaking my fist at the sunlight filtering through the curtains. I look over at the other bed. Joe hasn’t heard my alarm. I’m pretty sure at this point, Joe wouldn’t have heard the Hindenberg right outside the window. We’d gotten back to the hotel room just before 7:00 and simply collapsed. My body still thinks we’re doing that. My brain has other ideas.
I glance at my phone. Tom and Doug are readying for the pool, because apparently sleep is not necessary for Britons or relocated Rhode Islanders. I could skip the pool if I really wanted to; dinner isn’t until 5:30 at the Studios, and I could potentially nap for like another hour or so. Ah, but that would just mean I wouldn’t sleep tonight, and then I wouldn’t be my fresh and bubbly self for Epcot park opening tomorrow. I’m nothing without my freshness and bubbliness.
This picture becomes super relevant later, I swear.
“Hi,” I murmur outside my door, clad in bright orange swim trunks and Mickey Crocs. I could have purchased a shirt that says Oh BTW I’m A Tourist, but it would probably be unnecessary at this point.
“Hi,” Doug murmurs, looking exactly as hard-worn as I feel.
“Hi!” Tom shouts. “Who’s ready to swim!?” Touché, Tom. You beat me at my own game.
There is splashing. Ditto diving and dunking and wandering about in the water. Sometimes I go swimming at my resort when I’m at Disney, but usually it’s late at night and I’m exhausted from a day of park touring and I’m trying to get my feet to feel like feet and not burrito dough that’s been through the presser one too many times and is now dumb and feeling and pain is the only thing it knows. I’m not used to relaxing on vacation. I’m used to going. Constantly. Nonstop. This is sort of like a time-out from everything. I don’t really swim – I took lessons once, but it was more that the swim instructor was super hot and I didn’t learn much except “you don’t have gills and you can’t breathe underwater, we’ve been over this” – but I do love just floating around and hanging with my buddies and having an honest-to-Skittles break.
After maybe an hour, though, waterlogginess strikes and we’re padding our sodden selves back up to our rooms. Tom and Doug are staying at Pop all day, and I plan to meet them later at Petals for some late-night imbibing. Betsy isn’t around; I’m pretty sure this is the night she and the other ladies are dressing up and heading out to Citrico’s. Joe’s in the shower, still absolutely clueless as to where we’re heading to dinner. I am so good at keeping secrets.
* * *
“What time is Mama Melrose?”
I spin on Joe as we walk through the gates of Hollywood Studios. “How do you know where we’re going?”
Joe flips up three fingers. “A place we’ve never been, so not 50’s Prime Time” – one finger – “one table service credit, so not Brown Derby” – another finger – “and I’m pretty sure you don’t want to do the Disney Jr. meet & greet, so no Hollywood & Vine.”
I watch him a moment. “Mama Melrose’s is at 5:30.”
“I love Italian!”
We have some time to kill, so there’s time for a jaunt on both the Rock N Rollercoaster and the Tower of Terror (TAU A TEH!). To expedite things, we decide on the single rider line at Rock N Rollercoaster. Now, here’s the thing. Single rider is awesome. Even if you’re with friends, it’s awesome. Usually you get through the line faster, and you get to wait with your buddies and only the ride, when you’re screaming and carrying on and not even necessarily paying attention to your friends, especially during that zero to one billion miles an hour launch at the start. But sometimes you want your buddy next to you anyway, and it’s sort of a shame that Joe and I didn’t get to ride RNR again, because if I had the choice, I’d stand in the longer line just so I could ride with him.
Mama Melrose’s is tucked away near the back of Hollywood Studios, on the Streets of America, back beyond Muppetvision 3D and Pizza Planet. It’s easy to miss because it’s so well hidden; I actually have a hard time finding it. This is maybe a shame and maybe a blessing. It’s located near It’s A Wonderful Shop, named for the perennial favorite It’s a Wonderful Life; there’s a year-round snowman out front and inside it’s the quaintest Christmas store in the world. Quaint really is the word for this area, and once again Hollywood Studios is begging me to look closer, and discover the smaller details, the neat stuff I always buzz by on the way to the thrill rides and One Man’s Dream.
This too becomes super relevant later, PROMISE!
I give my name at the check-in desk and the Cast Member smiles. “Quigley! I have an uncle named Quigley! He was a private investigator! Are you related to him?”
I blink. I’m used to this in New England, where everyone’s sort of Irish. “Um, no. I’ve written novels about a private investigator, but I don’t think there’s one in my family.”
“Aw, well that’s too bad. Anyway, it’ll be just a few minutes.” Joe and I glance around the lobby, which is super old-school New York Italian restaurant … right down to the walls festooned with pictures of celebrities. And not just any celebrities. Celebrities from 1989, when the Studios opened.
“Joe.”
“Yes?”
“Lyle Alzado!”
“Who’s Lyle Alzado?”
LYLE ALZADO!
“He was a sports person in the 80s and then he did movies. I think. I had such a thing for him in the early 90s.”
“Of course you did.”
“Oh my God, Sally Struthers with ginormous hair!”
A new cast member sidles up. “Quigley, party of two?” I nod and she laughs. “My dog’s name is Quigley!”
And all I can think is, We named the dog Indiana. I ask, “Is he a private investigator?”
* * *
The dining area is all rich, dark wood, small tables, and movie posters from Italy. Seriously, right above our table is a gigantic poster for the Italian release of Alien (which, I just realized, ties into the Great Movie Ride, wow). Classic crooner music plays quietly – Sinatra and Dean Martin – and I’m hoping to hear some Springsteen (this never happens). The general consensus in the Disneysphere is that Mama Melrose’s is pretty great Italian-American food – not as bland as Tony’s in the Magic Kingdom, but nowhere near the awesome of Via Napoli in Epcot. The consensus is right. I order the chicken parm on spaghetti, because – as we’ve established – I’m a freakin tourist. Joe, a little more adventurous, goes for the pork osso bucco, which I try and fall in love with. For some lunatic reason, I don’t go for the strip steak, perhaps because I don’t want Le Cellier to think I’m two-timing it. We’re over-full before dessert. That’s the thing about the dining plan: you tend to eat far, far more than normal. (The other thing is that at the end of the trip, you have like five counter service options and eight snacks still left open and you’re really never going to use them. Maybe next time we do the counter service plan.)
We waddle out and because I have the best ideas, I suggest going immediately on Star Tours. Joe agrees at once, because our brain is fogged by starch and meat and “It Was a Very Good Year.” Once again, I’m going to point out that Star Tours has done the most dramatic turnaround of any ride in any Disney park. It’s gone from being one of my least favorite attractions to one of my Must Dos. Even if I’m stuffed to the gills with a heavy Italian meal and I walk off the ride with my tummy lurching and my brain discombobulated. But we got Hoth, so I call this afternoon a win.
Except I had WAYYYY too much parm.
It’s dusk when we emerge, and after a couple final drops on the Tower of Terror, we amble out to the trams. For a moment, I reflect that we hadn’t seen One Man’s Dream this time. Ditto the Great Movie Ride. Ditto Toy Story Midway Mania. Sometimes when you’re so focused on the little things, you forget the big things. It’s okay, though, because sometimes it’s the little things that count.
And the AT-ATs.
* * *
There’s a jaunt to Downtown Disney for shopping but mostly for Ghiradelli ice cream sundaes. And pin trading, because I’m that guy – “that guy” meaning the fellow who will go to his grave without ever finding the Executioner Pete pin and will haz a sad for ever and all times. We take a brief jaunt into dStreet to check out Vinylmations (because I’m also That Guy) and while I’m ogling the new Park series, Joe beckons me over.
“Oh, Keeeevin?”
“Yes?” And then I see what he has in his hands and I go mental. If you’re not familiar with Vinylmation collecting and trading, basically they’re these little vinyl maquettes in the shape of Mickey Mouse but decorated in a bunch of different ways. The Mickey shape lends itself to zillions of possibilities; my hubby, in fact, bought a blank one last year and transformed it into Swamp Thing for my Christmas present. Most of the Vinylmations are boxed up so you can’t tell what design they are (sort of like baseball cards); you know what series they are, so you buy with the hope of getting one of that series. And if you don’t like what you get, you can trade with people at Disney shops, or other collectors.
More recently, some series have clear fronts on the boxes, so if you know what you’re getting. These are normally special editions, one-off type things you can’t normally get. Joe is holding a white box and has a devilish grin on his face.
“What’s that you’re holding?”
“Something you’re going to want.”
He flips it over and oh my God seriously what the heck it’s the Rescuers, Bernard and Bianca, the freaking Rescuers and they’re in a set and did you guys know that The Rescuers is my favorite Disney movie and now, randomly, there’s a SET and I MUST HAVE THEM RIGHT NOW.
OMGOMGOMGOMGOMG
What people like about me the most is my sedate nature.
* * *
We meet up with Doug and Tom at Petals, the bar by the Hippy Dippy pool, and I knock back my first alcoholic beverage in about eight months. I’m not sure if it’s making me loopy or if I’m still feeling the aftereffects of staying overnight in the Magic Kingdom. Maybe both. There’s a creepy guy at the bar and he keeps trying to pick up ladies and provide American Idol commentary and the whole scene is a little sketch, so we finish our drinks and head back upstairs for restiness. We deserve it.
Tomorrow is our last day here.
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