Disney Death March

After talking with K for an hour and a half, my mind was reeling. Either this man had the most interesting life of anyone in the history of the world or he was the craziest motherfucker I'd ever met. There is a fine line between genius and madness, but it's important to stay on the right side of the line. I reminded myself many times during the course of our conversation that you can't catch crazy, and found K to be a genuinely delightful person. But, still, nice can't trump being a wack-a-doo.

K remembered his golf tournament and eventually bid his farewells, promising to meet us the following day to repeat the process, and we were free to explore. All the sights and sounds of Disney beckoned but, frankly --- after our near-death experience just getting there and the psychedelic experience of K --- I was ready for a nap.

Unfortunately, my husband --- normally the sweetest and most considerate of men --- becomes a vacation despot. On our last trip, we walked until my feet bled. The time before that, we visited literally EVERY church in Quebec. And some outside the city, as well. And if you haven't been to Quebec, all I can say is it has a LOT of churches.

So, in preparation for this trip, I started priming the pump early. I reminded him every day of my weak and arthritic ankles. I reminded him of my arthritic back and my bulging discs. I made an effort to look particularly aged and feeble. I pointed out that, while he is a Greek god among men, I am a nag destined for the glue factory in very short order.

(His answer was to ban my flip flops and to buy me very lightweight, flexible running shoes. "Now," he said, smiling, "there is no reason you can't keep up with me. Isn't this great?!"

"But, they're little leather coffins for feet! I can't put my feet in those all day long! My feet can't breathe! I'll get blisters!"

"No, no," he reasoned, "you'll get used to them. It'll be better for you. You'll be able to walk for miles."

I got the message. I might wear the shoes, but he wouldn't make me like it. And I figured I was now due some Disney loot in exchange. This could be working out to my advantage, after all.)

Now we were here, with two parks to cover in one day, Hurricane Wilma threatening, and Scott with a surfeit of energy to expend. I made one final plea for mercy, then the Disney Death March began.

First, we got tickets for the Mission: Space ride. This was a mistake, but we'll come back to that later. While we waited for our ride time, we headed around the International Pavilions to sample the food at the International Food and Wine Festival. This was actually good, and less expensive than the Norwegian smoked fish fest Scott had been planning. Strangely, the Norwegian pavilion had been taken over by the Disney Princesses, who were taking all their meals there. EVERY table was booked. We were assured that a seat would not be available for breakfast, lunch, OR dinner until sometime in November.

"What," Scott wondered, "would a kid eat at a Norwegian restaurant?"

My guess, macaroni and cheese.

However, the special Festival booths had some really great food. And booze. Which I reckoned I'd be needing before too long.

Rounding the far side of the lake, I had my first inkling that we were going to stand out from the "average" guest. There, near the German pavilion (I think, they all blur together after a while), was a miniature train set-up.

"Quick, take my picture like I'm a monster menacing the village!" my husband growled, his face a rictus of evil, leaning over the railing, his hands raised in enormous claws.

Always happy to oblige, I whipped out the camera and started shouting directions. "Look more terrifying! LOOK MORE TERRIFYING!" I was Cecil B. DeMille, and I was getting the best performance of Scott's life!

Then I saw the woman over his shoulder. The one who was looking at me like we should not have been allowed in the park. Ever.

"Uh, he's menacing the village," I shrugged, blushing.

We made our retreat to the champagne kiosk, then promptly pounced on Fox, from Pinocchio. I had decided that I only wanted to associate with the bad characters, and this guy definitely fit the bill. I wanted to pose like I was dragging him away by his tail, but was too shy when I got up close to him. From a distance, you can kind of pretend that it really is Fox, but up close you can tell that it's a person looking at you from the mesh covering the eyes. A tired person. A patient, tired person.

A Disney villain I can manhandle, no problem; a real person, well, I've gotta know you for a while before I can be THAT bossy.

Suddenly, from the Colonial American pavilion, we heard the fife and drum. "Hurrah! They're conscripting colonists for their army! Let's go watch!"

We then got into an argument about whether they were conscripting or impressing civilians, but it ended up they were just doing a little schtick. It got me thinking, though, how cool it would be if, every once in a while, a few of the nations would band together and invade, say, France. They're used to it, and it would be educational and entertaining all at the same time.

Needless to say, this earned me a few more strange looks from the other tourists, but then it was time to head over to Mission: Space for our first ride of the day.

Really, the only good thing I can say about Mission: Space is that Gary Sinise is your captain. And he is very easy on the eyes. Despite what my husband says. He looks all tired and worn out and like he couldn't run very fast. I like that.

What I DON'T like is a stupid ride that straps you into a pseudo-cockpit then tilts your seat all around while flashing twirly pictures on a big video screen in front of you.

Yes. I have motion sickness. Yes, it was horrible. No, I didn't puke, but not for lack of trying, I assure you.

This was not a good start to our day. But, it would only get worse from here.....