The Magic Kingdom in Orlando is too complex for spontaneous visits. Half the fun of going is planning the trip.
I am a 48-year-old single woman with no children, two dogs, and a job. Or is that two jobs and a dog? I can’t remember because my mind is blurred with the recurring nightmare I’ve been having after spending three days, with a broken toe, at Walt Disney World in Orlando. You know, the Magic Kingdom, where all your dreams come true when you wish upon a star.
I call it “post theme park syndrome.” Every time I close my eyes, the vision of a thousand blue strollers crammed with crying children of all shapes, sizes, and colors plays on the back of my eyelids. Behind the doublewide carts, sweaty, grim-faced adults in hats with mouse ears strain, bump, and grind madly, as if they were on a mission from God.
As I sat on a bench sticky from hundreds of spilled soft drinks, I rubbed my foot that had just been run over by a careless crusader. In a moment of frustration and fury, I wondered how I, the anti-park patron, had ended up at Walt Disney World with a toe the size of Mickey’s bulbous nose.
In a moment of clarity, I remembered the idea had been mine.
Several months before, I had asked my nieces, Taylor (9) and Jamie (6), who have called me “Uncle Nancy” since they could talk, to join my friend Harold and his 3-year-old daughter Maegan for a three-day romp through Orlando. Theoretically the idea sounded simple enough: a fun hotel, two adults, and three kids. Hakuna matata.
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What can I say? I’m a take-charge person. I’ve planned African safaris and canoe trips down the Amazon. I figured the Magic Kingdom would be, well, child’s play. We bought two Disney guidebooks to help plot our course of action. I chose Walt Disney World, Expert Advice from the Inside Source—more than 250 pages of useful information and references to all of the new upscale additions to the park, including profiles of several four-star dining rooms. (Translation: all the places where I could spend money.) But Taylor and Jamie got the inside scoop from Walt Disney World For Kids by Kids, a helpful guide with ride reviews written by children explaining which are too scary or noisy.
Diligently my girls made a list of their “must see” attractions and rides. Maegan’s only request was to meet Cinderella, so we set out to make breakfast reservations at Cinderella’s Royal Table, where after a feast in a room filled with roving Disney characters, you get to sit by Cinderella’s side in her golden throne for the ultimate Kodak moment. Believe me, you can get tickets to Broadway’s smash hit The Producers easier than you can get a seat for the “Once Upon a Time” breakfast in Cinderella Castle. But after using the name of a friend who used to be a friend of somebody who once sat next to Michael Eisner at a hockey game, we were a shoo-in.
We spent hours online trying to pick the right hotel, eventually deciding to stay “off premise” at the Holiday Inn Sunspree. Do as I say, not as I did rule number one: stay on premise. Don’t get me wrong, we could have spent three days without ever leaving the Sunspree, which featured kids’ suites complete with their own private cabin furnished with two sets of bunk beds, a TV, VCR, and video games, plus a giant pool.
But after our first long day of driving to Animal Kingdom (just one of the theme parks within Disney World), taking a shuttle to the monorail, walking to the entrance, and then repeating the process after seven hours of wandering around and waiting in lines, we learned that the off-premise approach is for parents in their 20s.
As a non-parent and 20 years from my late 20s, I can safely say that if you are a first-time visitor to the Walt Disney Resort, plan your stay more carefully than you would a trip to climb Mount Everest. First of all, Disney is bigger. Spread over 47 acres, there are four theme parks, three water parks, a sports complex, and numerous ticketed entertainment opportunities like Cirque du Soleil. “On property” there are 17 themed resorts, from the quirky Contemporary, with a 90-foot tile mural in its cavernous lobby, to the overblown Grand Floridian and Spa, with turn-of-the-century Victorian latticework, turrets, and towers. Of course these fantasy resorts are expensive, but kids under 17 stay free and the resorts run free (and frequent) shuttles to the various parks. But here’s the kicker: each morning a designated theme park opens 1 1/2 hours early for the guests of Walt Disney World Resorts. And you get an ID card that allows unlimited use of the transportation system. Mid-day breaks (naps) become a realistic possibility. Despite late starts every morning, our frustrations vanished at the shriek of pure joy from Maegan after her first glimpse of Cinderella. Maegan’s face flushed red; her eyes, puffy from a nagging cold, were suddenly clear and bright. She ran from her father’s side and rushed past the line of waiting children and threw her arms around the (17-inch) waist of her heroine. Harold and I decided to put aside our debate about false hero worship and to overlook the fact that every ride deposited us in a 3,500-square-foot gift shop. Instead we chose to relax and enjoy ourselves because the kids were having a blast. Do as I say, not as I did rule number two: beware of the relentless shopping temptations. Harold tried his best to say no when Maegan refused to let go of a red, patent leather, Minnie Mouse suitcase she rationalized that she had to have with the skill of a seasoned defense attorney. Nobody ever accused Disney merchandising of being passive aggressive. Buying has never been easier. Once you’ve dropped a wad, you can have the goods delivered to your on-site hotel, shipped home, or delivered to the front gate at no additional charge. Once the kids get wind of the no schlepping option, the pressure to buy only heightens. Somehow our group escaped with only one major shopping explosion, and Harold and I settled back to watch the kids have a great time collecting autographs and posing with Mickey, Tigger, Goofy, and the babe of all babes, Ariel from The Little Mermaid. All of us delighted in the lavish, live production of The Lion King—the outlandishly costumed actors performed songs, ethnic dances, and acrobatics as well as their Broadway counterparts. Some of us laughed (Taylor and Jamie because they escaped relatively dry and smug) and the rest of us cried (Maegan because she was scared, and Harold and I because our cell phones were ruined) after we got drenched on the Kali River rapids ride. Taylor and I had a fabulous female bonding moment after surviving the hurky jerky train that accelerated around the curves and dips of Big Thunder Mountain. To this day, Jamie still talks about climbing the rope ladders through the Swiss Family Treehouse, where the fantasy of a shipwrecked family who lived in the top of a tree captured her imagination forever. “Uncle Nancy?” she asked endlessly in wispy tones. “Did they really live in a tree?” “How did they get the tables and chairs to the top?” “Did the kids ever fall out of their beds?” Being a little rusty on my Swiss Family Robinson lore, and fearing the politically incorrect answer, I gave her the best advice that any good uncle could give, “Ask your mother.”
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