This time next week, I’ll be in Disney World
My long-awaited family vacation (my mother in law is a compulsive? planner, so the plan was worked out over a year ago) is next week. We fly out of Boston really early Sunday morning, and should be in the pool by lunchtime. Maybe catching fireworks that night.
It isn’t like I don’t know that Disney World can be seen as a fascist little micro-state. Staying on the property means you are, practically speaking, hermetically sealed in a big fat anti-reality bubble. Inside the bubble just about everyone is pleasant, the buses run on time, everything is clean, there is entertainment at every turn, and you are constantly invited to play. So I love it.
I don’t feel guilty about it, either. Nope. I plan to take more people-less polaroids in the parks (I’m patient, and that week in December is one of the slowest weeks there) and soak in the poolside sauna.
The whole thing is about as divorced from reality as you can get, seeing as how you can walk from Venice to Mexico in well under an hour and watch Tinkerbell fly over your head. That’s why it will be a great vacation.
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