"Get down to Disney World, in Florida, take your families," President George W. Bush said, urging Americans to return to normal life after September 11. So I went. I took the family, or that part of it (my wife, Susan) that has not flown the nest. First time to Disney World for either of us. It may seem an odd place to go without children along, but Disney World has lately been wooing people like us—people who were there at the creation, as it were, who learned the lyrics to the Mouseketeer song when it was brand-new. Old people. Disney's commercials tend to depict vacationing middle-agers going starry-eyed, but I can't believe that the grown-up set really comes here in search of adventure and romance. (At least, I hope not.) You come because they built it. Perhaps as many as half of all Americans have been here. It's a national institution. And, I discovered, there are certain advantages to bringing some seasoning to the experience.
I'm going to begin my report with a little story that doesn't reflect well on me but may be instructive. We went to breakfast in our Disney "resort hotel," called the Beach Club. In the restaurant's foyer a large Minnie Mouse was posing with children—we had stumbled into what they call a character breakfast. Goofy was wandering around, and he came by our table. A warm smile and a wave for him. Next Chip stopped by. (Remember Chip, of Chip 'n' Dale, the chipmunks? I didn't, actually, but that's his name.) A smile for him, too, but he sought something more. He sat down on the banquette next to Susan, put his arm around her, pointed from himself to her, pantomiming I'm gonna steal your girl. Reader, I could have been much, much better in this situation. I might have rubbed my eyes: boo hoo. Or made a long face and drawn tear lines down my cheeks. Instead I just smiled. Warmly? Gamely? Rictuslike? It's so hard to know from within. In any case, it was an inadequate response, and Chip (I now see) had little choice but to do what he did: lean over my scrambled eggs and propose a nose rub. Still friends. Here things went from bad to worse, and I'm afraid I said the following sentence (quietly, still smiling): "Thanks, old buddy, but I don't think we'll do noses today." Should have done noses, though, because Chip still needed an exit strategy, which he found in tousling my hair and kissing me on the head.
Here's the point: At any other age this encounter would have been trouble. As a little boy I would have been scared, as a teenager mortified. As a young man I would have been (in a way that might have spoiled everybody's fun) verbally abusive and possibly violent. Interesting thought: would Chip just take a punch and retreat, or would he swing back? But now, in mellowness, I was just ... fine. I had come to Disney World at exactly the right age.
We set off for a tour of Epcot, and on the way got our first glimpse of the scope of Disney World. (We had arrived in the middle of the night.) The Beach Club stands right next to the Yacht Club, both of them creations of the nostalgic postmodern architect Robert A.M. Stern, incorporating outsize emblems of New England seaside buildings: gray shingles, widow's walk, windmill. Of course they are not really beach or yacht clubs, at least insofar as such places imply membership, an ocean, boats, and so on; the only water nearby is the artificial lagoon—which is, though, equipped with a lighthouse. On the other side of the lagoon lies the BoardWalk Inn complex. It's as though (if you're literal-minded, like me) you can stare across the "ocean" from Nantucket to Atlantic City. Other hotels loom behind, notably the huge Swan, with its giant rooftop statues of its namesake bird. The Magic Kingdom is nowhere in sight, but you know it's out there, along with the Animal Kingdom and various other realms. The World has some 20,000 hotel rooms altogether, and it occupies forty-seven square miles—twice the size of Manhattan. It is all around you.
Now, as we strolled next to the lagoon in the warm, midwinter Florida sun, a feeling of some pleasure arose. I have felt this way in many parts of the world—at the Great Pyramids, for instance, despite the presence of beggars, touts, and larcenous camel drivers (none of which were a problem at Disney World, of course). Everyone has experienced it: a pleasure that has little to do with fun. It's a tourist's sense of accomplishment: By God, this really must be seen, and I am seeing it.
Epcot began as a model town, a laboratory of futurism (the acronym stands for "Experimental Prototype Community of Tomorrow"). It maintains a few homages to technology, including a ride through the ages, sponsored by AT&T, that manages to suggest that all of human history has culminated in the Internet. But for the most part the park has morphed into a "World Showcase," a series of representations of countries around the world. These resemble movie sets, but they're more substantial, containing shops and restaurants. We started out at the United Kingdom, with its convincing and quite alluring Rose & Crown Pub, back to which I wanted to get for most of the rest of the tour. But the park is big, and when it was time for lunch, we had fetched up on China's shores, only halfway around, having already seen a quiet quarter of a French provincial town, a street in old Marrakesh, the Plaza San Marco, a German beer hall, a Japanese pagoda, a Norwegian stave church, and a place called simply "Outpost," which stands in for the entire Third World and contains artifacts of world trade, chiefly old Coca-Cola shipping cases. (This, with grim appropriateness, is about the only place in the World Showcase where you can't find a meal.)
We visited the Magic Kingdom the next day. What seems to be the unspoken lesson of Epcot is made explicit there, at one of the classic rides, It's a Small World. In this experience (as you may well know) one travels by gondola along a little waterway in a darkened cavern, voyaging past brightly colored dolls that represent the people and the creatures of many lands. Throughout, the Disney tune "It's a Small World After All" plays, and in the end the various symbols merge into a multicultural festival. The lesson, though, is not as easily understood as the lyric suggests. The words argue that we're basically all the same. But what it feels like, as at Epcot, is that the rest of the world is a cartoon.
If there is a problem in visiting Disney World without children, it's that you start getting concerned about things like this. A sticky little hand in each of yours goes a long way toward subduing an overactive mind. You may come here just to notch your traveler's belt. But this is not the Lincoln Memorial or the Louvre. Monuments and museums yield their meanings readily, but Disney World is complicated. You tend to Have Thoughts. Your inner voice begins to sound like one of those hectoring French critics who can find the soul of America in a Happy Meal.