Disney through the Decades
A pile of plates revealed partially eaten Mickey waffles, two test-bit pancakes, runny scrambled eggs, and rejected berries mistakenly mixed with plain -- not "vernella" -- yogurt. We continued with two eggs benedict, surprisingly good PB&J pizza, and soft-serve ice cream cones that tiny tongues could not outlick.
All because Mickey and Minnie were running late.
We waited ... and waited ... until none of us could hold in all that food and frustration. Heading back into the sweltering heat, we consoled ourselves. At least Chip and Dale stopped by; otherwise, this expensive character brunch would have been an even bigger bust.
I have been a Disney guest on and off for more than 50 years. I went to Disney World with my grandparents and sister the summer it opened. I returned to run a marathon 32 years later. More consistent has been Disneyland. That first time, I flew with my two young daughters from Alaska. It took three flights and 20 hours, but we arrived in Orange County ready to party. It's now more convenient living in San Diego.
By 1990, my daughters were on a first-name basis with any Disney character on VHS. Movies like Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, The Little Mermaid, Robin Hood, and The Fox and the Hound were in heavy rotation at our home. I secretly hoped we'd "run into" several characters we viewed as dear friends.
I got misty-eyed as we waited for our turn with Cinderella, then my daughters' favorite. A circle quickly formed as pushy parents vied for the princess's attention. There was a young blond girl in a wheelchair that Cinderella wanted to see, but able-bodied kids kept crowding her. We hung back, convinced politeness would pay off. It did as you can see from the top photo.
Decades later, I'm still cutting through crowds with a double stroller, still emotional whenever a certain character appears. My grandsons are now the same age as their mother and aunt were on that first visit.
Second-tier relatives serving as sherpas and kid wranglers may not completely grasp the desire to stalk a character or overpay for bedazzled mouse ears. They may not understand the veracity of anticipation, the car ride home if expectations aren't met. But they eagerly play along.
Personally, I prefer California Adventure, which opened in 2001. It's less crowded early mornings and, I like the Pixar- and Marvel-themed attractions. But Disneyland wins for its embrace of the past and nod to the present, it's ability to create attractions that thrill both parents and children alike. It's a Small World is still da bomb. The Haunted Mansion, with its Tim Burton makeover each Halloween, is just as terrorizing. Guest favorite Splash Mountain, from 1946's Song of the South, is being replaced with the more culturally sensitive Tatiana's Bayou from The Princess and the Frog. Toon Town's recent facelift makes it surreally bright upon entry.
During Covid, the best you could hope for while at Galaxy's Edge was to mix it up with storm troopers in their pandemic-friendly costumes. Or glimpse Chewbacca tooling around a cordoned Millennial Falcon. Now it's easier to rub elbows with The Mandalorian and newer characters in the Star Wars universe. (And here's a pro tip: Tomorrowland also has Star Wars attractions, including an often-unnoticed meet and greet with Darth Vader where he tries to turn you to the Dark Side.)
Disney theme parks really are magical, a major event in a household's history. They manage to alleviate the deep exhaustion of childrearing for a day (maybe two or three if you can afford it). Everyone tires under an intense sun and all that concrete, yet everyone also willingly wilts in a shade-less line and agrees to just one more show. I know plenty of childless couples who love Disney parks because they bring out the inner child in all of us.
"Tigger's jumping around here somewhere," a ride host tells us as we de-board a Frontierland ride, noticing my grandsons's Tigger T-shirt.
We find Tigger and join the semi-circle, trying to decode a pattern in how kids are chosen for a photo op. Whatever the system, it collapses when a "kid" of about 30 breaks ranks, asking Tigger for an autograph and photo. Everyone does the same, even though it had been our turn next.
"Should we just go?" my daughter asks.
"Let's ask the employee paying more attention to her phone," I respond.
Looking up to see what's become of her lax crowd control, she comes over and asks everyone to step back, give Tigger some space. She whispers to Tigger that we've waited longer than anyone here.
I'm immediately brought back to the swarm surrounding Cinderella 33 summers ago. Back then, my younger daughter feared big crowds and demanded to be held, just as my younger grandson does now. And once again, our patience is rewarded.
This character encounter more than made up for the snub back at brunch, already forgotten by all but me and Mom. I suppose that's a bit of applied magic too. It takes very little to forget the hassles and high costs. To realize the unfulfilled promises from the website or brochures. All is forgiven -- and immediately -- with a heartfelt embrace from a cherished childhood friend.
