“Have a nice walk!” she said as she handed me my ticket and my change.
It occurred to me as I breezed past the security check, backed up with double-decker strollers and brainwashed babies, that Disneyland is not really the kind of place that just happens accidentally in your day. You’re supposed to save for it, plan for it, bribe your kids with it, pretend you don’t care for it, then gradually grow to live for it.
I on the other hand, really wasn’t prepared for it. I hadn’t packed any high-waist chino shorts, high white socks, or white sneakers, and I’d obviously left my visor and faux-leather fannypack at home too. I wasn’t carrying extra camera batteries or even a camera. I didn’t have a guidebook, gameplan, or cheatsheets to avoid long lines at the best rides. Unlike everyone else, I wasn’t feeling that I was already behind schedule at 8:30am.
I was alone at Disneyland … just out for a walk.
It suddenly hit me that I was in a most unusual and enviable position. My brisk walk became a relaxed ramble. I got on lines just to get on, and then got off again, just because I could. I stopped and looked at merchandise—and bought nothing. I considered having my photo taken with Minnie Mouse, then reconsidered. I chose rides based on people-watching potential.
“How many are you?” the park workers asked each time I approached a rollercoaster car. “Just one,” I replied, forgiving them their questioning looks. They conferred amongst themselves, strategizing how best to even out an odd-numbered group with me, wondering if they should alert the head Mouse that there was a person at the park––alone!
When waiting for the Indiana Jones ride, I was sandwiched between a group of thirteen and a family of five. The larger group was passing large meaty sandwiches among their meaty selves, and splintering into smaller groups survivor-style, to discuss—mouths full—who was holding them back. The family of five consisted of a backpack-wearing dad, agenda-bearing mom, two pretending not to be with them teenage boys and a five-year-old girl who actually appeared happy to be there. She was the lucky one I thought. Everyone else on the line—and maybe in the park—was storing it up to live later when they got home, but she was living it right now.
PREVIOUS PAGE
