After returning from a trip to Disneyland with our sullen teenage son, I couldn’t help but reminisce back to the first time we took him there. Maybe travel is only glamorous in retrospect. Or maybe not even then...
"Whoo-whoooo! All Aboard the Disney Express!”
"Whoo-whoooo! All Aboard the Disney Express!”
Grandma, my four siblings, our spouses, two middle-schoolers and the little ones (four cousins under five) humored me with half-smiles as we pulled out of Portland's Union Station. I couldn't vouch for the others, but I felt like royalty. Because there we were, on our way to see Mickey, our sheer numbers qualifying us for our own train compartment—with our own restroom, no less. Believe me, it came in handy (more on that later). Maybe we'd been vulnerable to those, "So what are you going to do now? " "I’m going to Disneyland!" commercials, but we all felt Grandma deserved something special. After all, we were celebrating her 100th birthday in a few days.
It wasn’t long before the clackety-clack, clackety-clack of the train put us into a pleasant Disney daydream. Maybe this was just the escape we needed. Riding the rails held such nostalgia for me and my siblings—with our railroading dad qualifying for half-price fares, it had been the only way our family of seven could travel when we were young. And having lost our mom three months earlier, it brought back memories of when we were together. Our compartment was cooling down nicely. Ahh, those train guys think of everything—I hate being hot when I sleep.
Several blankets and an extra layer of clothing later--ya know, there is such a thing as being too cool. A talk with the conductor and it's not long before our compartment starts feeling oh-so cozy. As visions of Peter Pan and Tinkerbell fill our heads, several family members start feeling queasy. They include my husband and sister-in-law, neither of whom were keen on the train idea to begin with. In fact, it's not long before our restroom starts getting lots of visits, and, is it getting kind of hot in here? I mean, like, I'm sweating. Another talk with the conductor, another assurance of comfort. Just ignore what's going on in the restroom, this is an adventure. Think Snow White, Cinderella... "Stop the train! Some kid just swallowed contact lens fluid!"
Pitch black. Middle of nowhere. Two hour wait. Paramedics on board. Finally, choo-chooooo, we're on our way to Fantasyland! One hundred and one Dalmatians, one hundred Dalmatians, ninety nine...
The ventilation system is having none of it—I’m shivering riding bobsleds on the Matterhorn—I’m perspiring in a mining car chugging under the blistering sun on Thunder Mountain Railroad. As often as my dream morphs to keep me in Neverland, the twenty minute cycle from a frigid 55 degrees to a sweltering 90 (combined with the sounds and smells coming from the restroom" cannot be overcome. As I contemplate counting Cruella DeVilles, I hear the sound of nervous laughter (oh, it's mine) as sis-in-law offers $10,000 to anyone who can get her into her own bed. Our eleven hour late arrival into Anaheim gets us in just in time for an 8 am breakfast reservation with Minnie and friends. Most of us look like we've been run over, by, I don't know, a train?
Grandma, bright eyed and surprisingly bushy-tailed, gives us the once over with a sheepish smile, "You look exhausted. I didn't keep you up with my snoring last night, did I?"
To be continued...
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