Oh, Mickey

There are two types of people in the world- those who love Disney World and those who have been sucked of all joy and child-like wonder and instead prefer to sit back, roll their eyes and say smug, cynical things like "I'd rather have a fork jammed in my eye repeatedly for twelve hours than go there." These are the people who jump to tell you that Disney World is a terrorist's dream. And remind you how much money you'll spend to stand on line for hours on end with hordes of screaming, sweaty children.

To which, your only recourse is to nod politely and tell them they're absolutely right while inwardly feeling deeply sorry for them, because they don't get it and they never will and there's a loss there that they cannot possibly fathom, that they don't even realize has taken place.

I'm not immune to Disney's trappings- the endless lines, the price gouging on bottled water in 90 degree heat, the strategically placed souvenir store at the end of the ride. I don't turn a blind eye to any of it. But I get it. In fact, I was a pretty skeptical kid- my mom says that I used to just stare at the characters, studying them for inaccuracies, making note of their shoes and their hands and those little grates where the person inside can see out. I'd wonder out loud why the Easter Bunny was wearing sneakers and what was he doing in the mall anyway? Things did not get past me then. So, when I say I get it, I mean I understand even more than my child self.

My niece is four and she's at the age where she believes, whole-heartedly and without a doubt in her mind, that the real Cinderella lives in this magic place, that her tall, blonde, immaculate princess-self is standing there in the flesh, just wrapped her arms around her and signed her perfect signature in the little pink book that bears her likeness. When Piglet turns the corner, her eyes widen and I'm so lost in her reaction, that for a second it IS Piglet, straight from Pooh Corner and the books in my old room. I'm almost as giddy as she is.

People talk all the time about the maniacs at Disney, how they're practically Nazi Generals when it comes to their staff and rules. I don't doubt it. But you know what? It works. From the time you step off the tram from the parking lot to the moment you pass back out through the wrought-iron gates, every single employee you pass says hello. They smile and you smile back. They wave from their golf carts as they putter by and you wave too, even though you'd look at someone like they were deranged if they tried that with you on the street.

You walk in and you're struck by the sheer brightness of Main Street. It's just as clean and white-washed and gleaming as you remember, with the kind of colors and charm right out of Burt's street drawing in Mary Poppins. There's music playing everywhere, songs you remember and your niece is singing along too, every word just as familiar to her as it is to you now. You're not distracted by people arguing, trash on the ground, graffiti, teenagers taunting people and snickering, because none of that is happening. Road rage does not exist in this place. As crowded as it is, people say "Excuse me" and pat you on the shoulder if they're come too close to your feet. They're just trying to get a look at that castle after all and who can blame them? Every princess fantasy you've ever had, even when you were older and caught daydreaming about the very real Prince William (it was always Harry for me), this was the castle in the back of your mind. Tall and blue and perfect. I didn't even post a picture of it, because the one in my head is so much clearer.

And by the time you've taken in as much as you can with your eyes and your stomach is full and your feet ache and the sky gets darker and the fireworks start, there's one last hit- right to the gut. Forget who you are during the day- swearing at traffic, stuck in an office chair all day, listening to the same pop songs over and over, complaining about bills and learning about who's health is failing and what's on your to-do list- it's gone, it disappears as soon as a singular glow of perfect, yellow light shoots across the sky, right over your head, right to that castle, into your past when you yourself were only four and you believed in fairies. Of course you did.

It's cheesy, sure, but these days you'd be a fool to turn your back on it. I say, take the magic where you can get it before it disappears for good.