The World Trade Center Transportation Hub’s concourse will ultimately connect visitors to 11 different subway lines; the PATH rail system; the Battery Park City Ferry Terminal; the National September 11 Memorial & Museum; World Trade Center Towers 1, 2, 3, and 4; and Brookfield Place (formerly known as the World Financial Center), which houses the Winter Garden. It represents the most integrated network of underground pedestrian connections in New York City.
The “Oculus” serves as the centerpiece of the World Trade Center Transportation Hub, incorporating 78,000 square feet of multi level state-of-the-art retail and dining. The concourses emanating from the Oculus link the entirety of the site above and below grade. With an additional 290,000 square feet of exciting, multi-level retail and dining space, the World Trade Center site is the focal point of Lower Manhattan. (Port Authority of New York and New Jersey site)
There are two MTA city buses that go from Flushing, Queens to Jamaica, Queens. They are named the 25 and the 34. One bus goes the local route, making all the stops, and the other is the express, skipping a few. I usually get onto whatever comes first, because the amount of time saved using the express is negligible. But today, I ended up on the express bus, heading towards Jamaica. There were ten passengers on board. The only passenger standing was a mop-headed middle-aged white man who was carrying six plastic Key Food bags filled with grocery items.
“I want to get off here,” he yelled as we passed his stop.
“I can’t. You can get off at the next stop,” said the bus driver, a portly black man.
“But I want to get off here!” repeated the passenger. “This is my stop!”
“I don’t stop here.”
“How can you not stop here? I always get off here.”
“This is the express bus. This is a local stop. I don’t stop here.”
“I demand that you stop!”
“I cannot stop. There are RULES.”
The passenger edged towards the front of the bus, his foot hovering over the white line separating him from the space of the driver.
“I know you,” he said to the driver. “You’re a control freak. You’re always like this. You get pleasure from sticking it to others. You’re a cruel man. A cruel, cruel man.”
Another passenger, an African-American woman in a short dress, stood up, hoping to ease the tension.
“It’s an express bus, mister.. Chill out. He doesn’t make the same stops. You must be used to being on the local bus.”
“Fuck that,” spewed the man. “He could stop if he really wanted. He just loves the power. I know his type.”
The rest of the passengers nervously glanced at each other, preparing for the worst. They turned towards me. I assumed that since I was the only other white passenger on the bus, and they wanted to see if I was to be an ally in case things turned racial.
The tension dissipated when the bus pulled into the next stop. The angry white passenger stepped off, two blocks from his usual stop,
“I know who you are,” he snipped once more at the driver. “All of us know who you are. You enjoy it. The way you stick to your rules. You’re a sick man. You’re crazy!”
The bus driver remained silent, ignoring his insults. The moment he left the bus and the door was closed, we all erupted in laughter.
“That guy was nuts!” said the woman across from me, sitting with his young son.
We all looked out the window as the man struggled with his bags, walking in the opposite direction.
There was a red light at the intersection where the stop was located, so the bus needed to wait at the curb until the light turned green. We sighed; our ride had reverted to normalcy. Just then, an elderly black man, a cane in his hand, knocked on the closed door of the bus, wanting to come inside. He was relieved to not miss the bus.
“I can’t let you in,” said the bus driver.
“Why not?” asked the man. “You’re still here.”
“I closed the doors already. There are RULES.”
The light turned green, and the bus sped away, spewing smoke in the elderly man’s face.
The bus passengers bonded again in secretive looks, but this time, you could see in our eyes that our opinion of the bus driver had forever changed.
“Liberals” are sometimes stereotyped in the media as elitists. I wonder if there is an element of truth to this. We say we want to discuss issues with our friends and relatives, but then use abstract language more suitable for a Yale graduate school seminar. If your conservative Uncle Joe on Facebook is willing to agree with you that there is too much police brutality against African-Americans, does it really matter at this point if he “accepts” the concept of white supremacy on your latest post?
I understand this tendency to sound elitist because I can be that person myself. I’m the type of guy who came home from my first semester of college to scold my mother to stop reading her “stupid Sue Grafton mystery novels” and pick up Plato’s Republic instead.
“Do you want to live your entire life in the shadows?” I told her after my freshman year. “How can you live without ever getting a strong foundation in Greek philosophy?”
Yeah. That type of guy.
Who would have guessed that one day I would be back living in the same apartment with my mother, reading her Sue Grafton novels?
Twice a week, my mother sets up a bridge table in the living room and plays mahjong with her friends. Her friends are smart, compassionate women, feminists at heart, open to neighborhoods of diversity, but born of another generation. Each woman is over eighty years of age, the children of immigrant parents, and have worked since an early age. None of them had the opportunity to attend college. It would be haughty of me to lecture these amazing women based on my advanced education, right? But sometimes I just can’t help myself.
I remember a few months ago, the mahjong group was taking a break from the game, having coffee and cake, and gossiping about their neighbors in the building. I entered the kitchen to grab a piece of the cake myself when I overheard one of them mention the cute children of the “Oriental” neighbor in apartment 3D.
“You probably shouldn’t say that,” I said. “She’s Chinese, not Oriental.”
“What’s so bad about Oriental? I’ve always said Oriental. Like someone from the Orient. Like Oriental salad!”
My mother and her friends teamed up against me.
“Yeah, Neil, what’s so wrong with Oriental?” asked my own mother.
I explained the different of Oriental and Occidental, and how the term Oriental comes from a European perspective and gives off the aura of “the other” and exoticism.
No one understood what the hell I was talking about.
“Just don’t say it! They don’t like it!” I shouted, giving up.
A few days ago, I came back from this rally in Union Square. The women were playing mahjong. I showed them a few of the photos I took, including one of a protester holding a sign that read “Black Lives Matter.”
“I don’t get what this means — Black Lives Matter? Don’t ALL lives matter?”
I went to the kitchen and made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, in order to give me time to think about my answer. What was the best way to talk to a group of eighty-year-old Jewish women about this subject?
I had an idea. I returned to the living room.
“Remember when you were kids, everyone said “Merry Christmas” to each other?”
I figured this was a good way to draw them in, with an analogy.
“We didn’t say Merry Christmas to each other,” said Louise, my mother’s friend.
“Yes, that’s because you’re Jewish,” I replied. “But the average American said Merry Christmas. People felt like it was a Christian country, so they just said Merry Christmas. This is the equivalant of saying White Lives Matter, but it’s more like Christmas Matters. Or Christian Holidays Matter.”
Now, everyone just looked confused.
“Hear me out. But as time went by, Americans wanted to include everyone in the holiday spirit, particuilarly their Jewish friends, so they started saying Happy Holidays. This is like saying All Holidays Matters — Christmas, Hanukkah, whatever.
“And what’s so wrong about that? Saying Happy Holidays?” said my mother. “You just made the argument for saying All Lives Matter.”
“Well, yes, but we all know that deep in our hearts, All Holidays Matter is really about Christmas, with Hanukkah and the other holidays sitting in the back row. It’s still Christian Holidays Matters in disguise. So someone who really celebrates Hanukkah might not want to be a mere appendage, but wants Hanukkah to be celebrated as worthy of it’s own meaning. So someone might say, “I never liked when you just said Merry Christmas, because it excluded me, and I did appreciate that you started to say Happy Holidays, but we both know that I was never an equal part under that All Holidays Flag, so now I just want to hear Happy Hanukkah so you are acknowledging that my holiday has meaning in itself. There is nothing inherently wrong with saying Merry Christmas, or Happy Holidays, but sometimes you just want to hear Happy Hannukah. And it is the same with saying Black Lives Matter. It’s a matter of giving respect.”
And I think I won them over. Either that or they just wanted to go back to their game.
In my twenties, I would never have slept with a married man. I’m too moralistic. The granddaughter of a preacher. But now, I don’t consider it a moral failing. it just IS. I see him, despite his marital status. I love him, despite his marital status. I caress him in my bed, despite his marital status.
It’s not the big bad city that changed me. I’m still the goody-two-shoes Wisconsin girl. It’s just getting older. It means the stripping the body and mind clean of what constricts us, the old black and white thinking, and embracing complexity. Don’t overthink it. See the world with an open mind. We are all flawed. Brene Brown tells me to not feel shame. My love for him is not shameful. Yes, our relationship is complicated, like they say on Facebook. But I understand it. I understand that he has kids, and his wife who’s crazy, so he needs more time. What I can give him is patience. I can wait. That’s true love. Like in Shakespeare.
He treats me well, better than any other man. He brings me gifts and tells me I’m beautiful. I so want to meet his kids. Some day. And we will be a family. Or else, we can have our own kids. Yeah, imagine that! What am I talking about? I’m not going to turn into my sister, stuck at home with kids, getting fatter by the day. No kids right now! That time will come. Just enjoy what you have. With no shame. Thank you, Brene Brown.
I bought a steak for tonight. He loves steak. I wish we would skip dinner completely and fall into bed, so I can feel his strong hands grab me from behind. I love when he says my name. I wait for that. He says that I make him feel like a man again. That his wife is aloof and makes him feel that he never makes enough money.
It’s 7:30. He said he would meet me here a half hour ago. But it’s OK. He must be stuck somewhere. I know Tuesday night his daughters have Girl Scouts. I wish he would text and tell me where he is. He needs to be discreet. I understand that. Until he can divorce her, it has to be this way. It’s all good. What can I do? All I can to do now is wait. True love requires patience.
Democracy requires compromise. We cannot survive in a world where ideological splits, gender politics, and vicious accusations of corruption are the daily norm. The 2016 Campaign has brought out the worst in everyone, and I’m not talking about the primary season, but the Board of Directors election in my apartment building in Queens.
There are two political camps in my building — Team Murray and Team Sylvia, which I’ve named in honor of their leaders. Each team has differing views on hot issues such as the efficiency of the new dryers in the laundry room, the wisdom of hiring a new management company, and the acceptable amount of electricity used in the yearly Christmas/Hanukkah decorations. Five new members of the Board are elected each year, and each side want to stack the Board with those loyal to their agenda.
This year’s trouble began a few weeks ago when tenants started to receive homemade “campaign” fliers slid under their door. At first, they were innocent enough — typical campaign promises of more parking spots — but the situation quickly deteriorated as more and more fliers showed up, usually at 3AM, unsigned and with vague accusations of corruption and abuse of power.
Team Murray and Team Sylvia went to war.
“Is there anything lower than sending around anonymous letters accusing good people of profiting from the new laundry machines?” screamed a new notice received under the door, written in a size 15 font.
“Only cowards write anonymously!” the person continued on, anonymously.
The day of the big election quickly arrived. I remembered that Jana was flying in from Atlanta that same night.
“Have any exciting plans for us?” she asked me on the phone on the night before her arrival.
“Very exciting plans,” I said. “I’m taking you to my apartment building’s Board of Director’s election night. This will be more dramatic than any Broadway show.”
The General Election was held in the apartment building’s large wood-grained “community room,” located near the lobby. The room, with a full kitchen and a full set of tables and chairs, has been home to countless meetings for the tenants, sweet sixteen parties and retirement dinners. It was in this room where, many years ago, I had my bris, the traditional Jewish circumcision ceremony. Can we get any more symbolic than that?
But tonight the room was a shelter for Democracy in Action. The candidates sat at the dais in the front, nervously fidgeting as the tenants placed their filled-out ballets into the makeshift cardboard ballot box, then sat down at one of the rows of chairs set up for the general meeting before the vote counting. My mother came early with her friends to get “good seats” up front. I arrived late with Jana since she had just arrived from La Guardia Airport. We found two open seats in the back, directly behind a group of supporters of Team Murray, including Murray himself. Whispers were passing between them; there was a last minute plot afoot.
The meeting started off peacefully. As we waited for late-comers to show up and vote, the President of the Board convened an open meeting to discuss some minor issues involving the building. And that’s when the shit hit the fan. One female tenant stood up to publicly accuse some long time resident on the fifth floor as the mysterious “anonymous letter writer.” The accused fought back, insinuating that she was cheating on her husband, and stealing The New York Times from other tenants. Things only go worse.
Much has been made of the lack of decorum on the internet, with all the insults, hate, and trolls being a product of modern-day forums such as Twitter and Reddit. This makes the assumption that in the days before the Internet, the human race was kind and respectful, lovingly listening to the needs of the others. I can guarantee that Jana and I were the only ones in this room who have ever used Twitter, and there was enough “shaming” going on in this room to fill ten timelines. Humans have been hitting each over the head with clubs since we were cavemen
After much loud drama, a tenant shouted everyone down, suggesting that we keep our personal issues saved for another day, and focus on the purpose of the evening — the election. All the ballots were now sitting in the box and it was time for the count. But first, as required by “the bylaws,” the President of the Board, a plumber by profession, had to read some legal document written back in 1960 to validate the legitimacy election. It was a ritual done in every Board Election since then.
The tenants of the building half-listened to the legalese until he reached the President reached the last paragraph of the bylaws, which went, “According to the bylaws, as written in June of the year 1960, if anyone so chooses to be included on the ballot as a write-in candidate, now is the last moment to do so, or else forfeit your chance. Would anyone else like to be added to the list of candidates?”
This was read without emotion, much in the same way that a pastor might ask those attending a wedding if anyone present has a reason to oppose the marriage. No one is supposed to yell out, “Yes,” except maybe a character in a romantic comedy from the 1990s.
But here is where Team Murray executed their shock and awe plot. They earlier had convinced Rashida, a friend of Murray’s wife, Allison, to add her name as a last-minute write-in candidate, hoping to stack the Board with supporters of the Team Murray agenda.
“I’d like to add my name,” said the woman, a middle school teacher named Rashida.
“Uh, OK…” said the Board President, unsure of the next move. In the fifty years of Board Elections, no one had ever added their name on the night of the election.
“You have to add her,” said Murray. “It’s in the bylaws.”
“I suppose it is. We’ll have to add her,” he said, facing the crowd, showing his first true sign of leadership during his five years as Board president. “So now if anyone wants to vote for Rashida, you can vote for her.”
Rose, one of the members of my mother’s weekly mahjongg group, stood up with an objection. Although now frail, the eighty-five year old Rose once worked at a large advertising firm and was considered intelligent and street savvy by the other tenants.
“I think we might have a little problem with this plan,” she said.
“What’s that?” asked the Board President/Plumber.
“We voted all already and our ballots are in the box.”
Pandemonium broke out, and even King Solomon himself couldn’t find a compromise between Team Murray and team Sulvia, a precursor of what is going to happen when Bernie Sanders makes a play for Hillary Clinton’s super-delegates at the Democratic Convention this summer. Politics is an ugly business
The Board President consulted with a tenant from the fifth floor who used to work as a court stenographer, and a decision was reached
“We will take all the ballots out of the box and return them to you, and then you can cross out someone and add Rashida instead.”
It was a mess. Many tenants never signed their name to the ballot the first time, so no one was quite sure which ballot belonged to which person, except if they used a special colored marker
Rashida, fearful of utter chaos, made the announcement that she was pulling out of the election, much to the dismay of Team Murray. She realized that it was just too complicated, and also wanted to go home before nine o’clock to watch some TV show. The ballots were returned to the box, and a trio of supposedly unbiased tenants from the building, an accountant, a retired NYPD officer, and a stay-at-home mom, took the box behind closed doors into the “kitchen area” to count the ballots by hand.
As the rest of us waited for the “results,” calmness fell over the room, and tenants socialized with each other, asking each other about their health and families. My mother took Jana over to meet her friends, introducing her as my “girlfriend.” Not that I minded my mother saying it, but it did feel weird hearing her say it, especially since I never described her as such. But women know these things.
Jana meeting the neighbors.
The cocktail party atmosphere faded as the kitchen door swung open, and the election committee returned with results. The crowd returned to their seats. It was time. Call Wolf Blitzer.
The election results were a surprise. Despite the maneuvering of the Machiavellian Team Murray, it was a clean sweep by Team Sylvia. All five of the Team Sylvia candidates were elected to the Board.
Murray himself stood up and announced the entire election a fraud.
“It’s an illegal election.”
“Why’s that?” asked the Board President, who was re-elected for a second term.
“Because the ballot box was opened, making it null and void!”
“But we only did that because your own candidate decided to run at the last moment before she changed her mind!”
“I demand a new election.”
“We’re not having a new election!”
“Then I’ll take this entire apartment building and the Board of Directors to court!”
Insults were flung. Someone’s wife was called a whore. Arguing was heard for hours as most of the tenants shrugged, and went upstairs to their apartments. Rashida went home to watch her TV show.
“So what did you think?” I asked Jana as we took the elevator upstairs.
“That was the best time I’ve ever had in New York.”
A week later, all parties agreed to accept the results, as long as it goes down in the history books with an asterisk, much like the contested election of George W. Bush.
Politics as usual.
Most people don’t know they are crazy until they sit down for an intervention with themselves.
My friend, Veronica is a artsy-craftsy woman. She creates gorgeous birthday cards using ink and collage. On Facebook, she is a member of a group named, “Save the Post Office,” which advocates for old-school letter writing by hand. For those who might not know what that means, it includes licking stamps, sticking them on store-bought envelopes, then sending the letter, non-electronically, person to person, like Ben Franklin might have once done, through the United States Post Office, something many of us haven’t done since 1992.
Veronica and I met in 2005, during the early days of personal blogging. She stopped writing her blog a few years ago, but recently she said that she missed sharing her personal stories. Social media just didn’t do it for her. She had an idea. She would write personal letters to her friends, scribed by hand, as if she was sent back in a time machine to her teenage years. One of those friends turned out to be me.
I did not know Veronica had included me in this experiment, but I certainly wasn’t surprised when I received her letter in the mail. She enjoys pushing herself creatively, someone who will take the time to write you a personal letter rather than take the easy route of pushing a button on Facebook Messenger.
I opened the mailbox that day at noon. Inside the box were the usual suspects — bills, a New Yorker magazine, and a coupon from Bed, Bath, and Beyond. Stuck in between the pages of the magazine was Veronica’s letter, my name hand-written on the envelope in a non-perfect cursive; it made me smile. I had a phone call to make, so I decided to open the letter in the evening, when I could give it my attention.
At 8PM I went to my desk and picked up the letter. It was time to read it. But when I tried to open it, I froze. Something was preventing me from opening the envelope, by why? What was there to fear? To avoid the discomfort, I opened Facebook on my laptop, but when I saw the glowing green light of Veronica in Messenger, I worried that she would ask me about the letter, so I shut off the computer. I grabbed the envelope and took it with me to bed, but when I started to tear it open, my mind filled with movie images from the past.
There was the Army messenger handing over the grim letter to the young woman, now a widow, at her front door. The lover awakening to a goodbye letter on the bed, signifying the end of a relationship. The suburban man’s suicide letter left after being fired from the company, being too ashamed to face his family.
Why did these melodramatic scenes pop into my head? Did I know they bore no connection to Veronica’s letter? Of course I did.
I waited until the next morning to open the envelope, when I had a renewed sense of reality. Veronica’s letter was personal, but contained nothing she couldn’t write publicly about on Facebook. She said her kids were growing up, getting married and going to college, and this was creating changes in her life as well. Nothing scandalous or scary.
That day, another letter arrived. Veronica’s letter-writing experiment was going to continue all week.
I found it easier to open the second handwritten letter. When I unfolded it, I immediately noticed that Veronica did some editing, crossing out a sentence with her pen, then scribbling her new thought sideways, in the margin. This raised the stakes in her letter-writing. The imperfections of the second letter was reminiscent of the notes you might pass in homeroom during elementary school. And again, I froze, for a different reason that the day before. Seeing Veronica’s edits, and touching the same paper that she once held in her hand was too visceral, like I could feel her pen still vibrating on the page. It felt too intimate, like I had walked into the bathroom while she was there, and I froze in a combination of curiosity and shame.
Yes. I know what you are thinking. Crazy. I was beginning to think so myself.
My letter reading improved as the week went on, until I received the seventh and last letter, which I couldn’t open for another four days.
Let me make sure you understand all this. None of these letters were intense or extremely personal. These letter were not sent to torment me, but as a creative exercise for herself. I know this because after reading the last letter, I finally called her on the phone.
“Veronica, I want to talk to you. It’s a little weird and personal….” I said, telling her my tale of the five handwritten letters. And as I proceeded, I gained the ability to step away and analyze my craziness. Maybe this is the true power of storytelling. You begin to understand yourself.
My hangup was about intimacy. Intimacy and anxiety in the digital age. For eleven years, a large bulk of my socializing has been mediated through electronic means — laptops, tablets, and phones, blogging, Facebook, instagram — to the point where I never hold a hand-written letter in my hands or speak to a friend on the telephone. My conversations are on IM or email, outlets without physical contact. Even Skype is a two-dimensional representation of reality. Since my divorce, I’ve had two romantic relationships, both based online, but the major background to our romantic tales doesn’t primarily take place in romantic cities like New York or Paris, but behind the lighted screens of our laptops, hundreds and thousands of miles apart.
Yes, I meet friends and lovers in person, but I wonder if my online existence has become so habitual that I have grown uncomfortable with the intimacy of something as innocent as a handwritten letter. I have grown so comfortable chatting with a thousand people at a time on social media, that sitting with a personal letter written just for me freaks me out. That is crazy. The truth is I felt myself unable to handle the intimacy of reading the letters, the lack of control. Would I have to write back? What if I connect too deeply? What if I don’t know what to say, or she says something that makes me cry? What if she is telling me that she is getting a divorce or has some mysterious disease? Can I just press the like button? Have I forgotten what it’s like to have a real friend? And what does this say about my relationships with others? Romantic ones.
“Maybe I shouldn’t write you again,” she said at the end of our conversation, laughing. “I didn’t realize it would affect you so much!”
But I hope she does. Or even better — maybe I should write back.
This is a post about writing online. It is written for myself, just to clarify something in my own mind, but I’ll share it with you anyway because if you also write online, maybe you have had similar thoughts.
Yesterday, I posted about the trip I took with Jana to Walt Disney World. I titled it, “Walt Disney World: World of Laughter and Tears.” Clever, huh? Originally, I named it “Walt Disney World: A World of Laughter, a World of Tears,” which better matches the lyrics of “It’s a Small World,” but when I googled the title, I saw it was already taken by TEN OTHER writers!
Still, I liked the post. When I started out writing it, I had three objectives, and I satisfied all of them.
1) Show off some new photos of Walt Disney World since I didn’t feel comfortable posting a million of them on Instagram where I would be mistaken for one of those dreaded Parent Bloggers.
2) Prove to my friend Danny that I could effectively mock the Disney ethos AND kiss Disney’s ass at the same time, just in case I ever want free tickets to some social media event there.
3) Prove to my friend Tanis that yes, I could go away for the weekend with a bright and attractive woman, and not have her break up with me.
Mission Accomplished to all three.
But did I really prove anything? And is this real writing? What type of writer am I? The stakes are so low. It’s almost childish.
Recently, I had bookmarked this article titled “6 Simple Ways to Get More People to Read Your MEDIUM Posts.” (via Medium). I read it yesterday while travelling in the subway. The writer had very strong opinions about online writing.
You have to SELL your ideas in Medium, and the best way you can do that is to make it about people. Don’t say “I did this and that”. SAY, “You can experience this and that.” … why?… Because the viewer wants to learn something FOR himself. Not about you..
Let’s say you really want to tell a personal story about yourself and your horrible experience at a night club.
Don’t say, “I went there, I did this, and this happened, and then this happened…”
Start with something like,
“Don’t make the same mistake I did when you go to a NIGHT CLUB.”
See how that changed everything? ..The prospective? To other people?..
You can ALWAYS make any personal story about others if you told them what they can learn from the experience and how they can take caution so they don’t end up doing the same thing you did.
By the way, It could be a HAPPY story too.
But don’t write, “I went to Disneyland and did this and this and that, and it was amazing.”
No, you should start with something like,
“Here’s how YOU can maximize your trip to Disneyland with these simple (but essential) tricks.
I looked back over my last post. Immediately I notice that I failed to even write the traditional “I went to Disneyland and did this and this and that, and it was amazing” post. My post is a slight of hand, nonsense to fill the space until I have enough nerve to say publicly that I had a nice time with Jana.
Now, let’s imagine I come home from Walt Disney World, but with a different perspective, one of professional writing. The first question I would ask myself if “Now that I’m home from my trip with Jana, how can I best use my writing and/or photography skills to make at least a measly $100 by sharing something about my experience?” I know. $100. But better than nothing, right?
Now to make some money out of this, I would need to pitch some story idea to an outside website or publication. Which one? And what is the pitch?
Of course, the story is already there, hidden in the middle of the post, when I write this sentence —
“Can romance be found at a Disney theme park, a location crowded with crying children, stressed out parents, and senior citizens aggressively driving their rent-a-scooters like the extras in a Mad Max film?”
That’s it. That’s the story. Everything else is the piece is irrelevant to a reader looking for content. This becomes a post about me using my experience to HELP OTHER PEOPLE decide if they should go with their girlfriend to Walt Disney World. That is a successful pitch for a travel or dating site, no?
Now is the bigger question. Do I want to help others to “maximize the romance of going to Walt Disney World?” Do I want to write this post? Not really.
But that’s another problem.
Every man should visit a Disney park five times during his lifetime.
The first time is when he is a child, so he can appreciate the magic of this amazing fantasy world through the eyes of a young person.
It’s a Small World
The second trip is years later, with high school or college buddies, done as a lark during spring break. This is a rite of passage between childhood and adulthood because what once caught your imagination now becomes an object of sarcasm and scorn. Everything Disney must be ridiculed and mocked as childish and commercial. The only reason for being there is to score some over-priced beers at the Germany pavilion at Epcot and then vomiting behind the PeopleMover as a sign of a triumph over your childhood.
The third excursion is after graduation, now as a male adult, his youth behind him, holding hands with a date, a lover, or girlfriend. This is his attempt to transform the Disney experience, once a symbol of childhood and teenage angst, into one of maturity and romance. More on this later.
The fourth visit is mid-life, with your wife and kids, hoping to see the joy in the bright faces of your children, so as to remember your own sense of awe at first stepping into the Magic Kingdom. Of course, now as an adult, you will also other thoughts, such as how this family trip, with travel, hotel, food, park admission, and food on the Disney property, is costing you more than a down payment on a new Prius, but once you overcome this urge to worry, this visit can be the most beautiful, depending on the behavior and brat-level of your offspring.
The fifth and final trip should be in old age, during the twilight years, preferably on your own. While standing in the middle of Disney’s old-fashioned, Norman-Rockwell type Main Street, you thank God for allowing you to visit a Disney property five times in your lifetime. Many come to Disney as a last wish as sick children, and never get to see it again. You were one of the lucky ones who got to experience Disney through all five stages of life.
And then, after counting your blessings, and with the Main Street trolley clanging by, as it does so efficiently ever few minutes, you should curse Walt Disney for every myth that he planted in your weak brain. It was Walt Disney who ruined your life. Your Prince or Princess never did come, did he? You never met a sexy mermaid or a talking lion, true? And the only time you saw a real mouse, he wasn’t cute with big ears, but a disease-ridden pest, and you smashed it dead with a golf club on the linoleum of your kitchen. No, Mr. Disney, during your entire life, all you peddled was fakery, like the Morocco’s cheap façade at Epcot, and you profited from it. And now, after counting your blessing and cursing the memory of Disney, there is nothing left for you to do on Earth but to die, facing Cinderella’s Castle, right in front of Goofy’s Souvenir Shop, and as you fall to the ground and take your last breath, you realize that even in death, you were conned by Walt Disney, who has cleverly frozen himself in a secret room in Burbank, California, so one day, in a true Tomorrowland, he will return to life, the richest man on Earth, laughing at your for his ultimate con job, a prank that even a Cruella Deville couldn’t imagine.
But, anyway, back to my recent trip to Walt Disney World with Jana. It was my “third category trip” to a Disney property, the “romantic trip.” While I had been to Disneyland while living in Los Angeles, it was my first time back at Walt Disney World since I went there in the late 1970s with my parents, before Epcot had not even been built!
Walt Disney World, late 1970s
I know the question you are asking yourself. Can romance be found at a Disney theme park, a location crowded with crying children, stressed out parents, and senior citizens aggressively driving their rent-a-scooters like the extras in a Mad Max film?
Walt Disney World, today
It’s not easy, especially if you are running around to go on rides you haven’t been on in decades, catching the buses back and forth to your hotel, and running races at 5AM (Jana was involved in a charity race).
Princess Race Finish Line Bleachers, Walt Disney World
Surely, by nightfall, even under the fake romantic moon in the Disney sky, most couples are less “Lady and the Tramp” slurping pasta together at a Italian bistro than Sleepy and Grumpy, wanting to hit the sack. That is mostly true. But yes, romance CAN be found at a Disney property, in small doses, but only if you go with the right woman who can magically turn the most cynical of men into believing in fairydust.
So, thumbs up, Walt Disney World. I prefer Disneyland in California, it being smaller and more a part of the the actual city of Anaheim, but I had a good time. And I didn’t expect to enjoy it. Next time I need to come with kids. Anyone’s kids.
And please, don’t ever tear down the corny Country Bear Jamboree, no matter how few people still visit it.
Walt Disney World, Main Street