Theme Park Vacations: It's A No

I’d like to preface this, and protect my own dignity, by saying that the only reason we found ourselves at the most famous theme park in the eastern time zone (which shall remain unnamed so they don’t sue us) in the first place, was because of a work related business conference that happened to be there.

For 9 years, since having my son in 2014, I have managed to avoid this place, and anything associated with it (cruises, icecapades, any and all experiential activations) like a plague. My defense was – if I wanted to blow 10K on a week-long family vacation, I’d do it on the coasts of Southern Europe, immersed in food, culture and the Mediterranean Sea.

I had long ago assumed that the theme park in question was where the big fat American dream went to flourish, and where my soul went to die.

I was correct.

This so-called magical place (to whom?), although impressive in sheer size, just felt like it was about to blatantly rip you off from the minute you entered through the colossal gates.

Animal-ear shaped details, winding maze-like roads, resort communities straight out of Pleasantville – everything was on brand (and terrifying).

We stayed at a nautical themed resort on the property, where the standard welcome was “Ahoy!”, and guests had the pleasure of spending their life savings on fried food and shitty coffee (amongst other attractions).

The first morning, we had to pull some serious missions to get three hangry kids some breakfast, which you’d assume would be fairly easy, but apparently walk-ins are scoffed at, and wait times averaged 60-90 min. Have you ever tried telling a 5-year-old to wait 60 minutes for character-themed waffles? I dare you to try.

And before you suggest room service, there wasn’t any. Weird, right? There I was dialing up “Private Dining” only to be told by an automated voice that the service was unavailable. Instead, you are forced to download and use *the app* to book your every move, otherwise: ENTRY DENIED. Fuck off and die.

Magical!

We managed to get on a waitlist and have brunch, and then off to the water we went. With three kids in tow and only one thing on our minds, we hit the resort pool in search of sun-soaked seats and heavy-pour margaritas. The first round was fine; skinny (a.k.a. no sugar) and fresh. The two that followed were barely drinkable and almost offensive (Did they switch out the liquor? Why was it THIS salty? Is it still a margarita?!), but we swallowed our pride and our terrible drinks because sobriety didn’t seem like a viable option at that moment.

You’d think the kids had it better, but the water they were served from the overdressed water cooler (think cucumbers, citrus, mint), actually smelled and tasted of chlorine. Having brought water bottles, we set out to find water refill stations, but who knew they’d be so scarce? I could only locate two on the vast property we walked, and it wasn’t easy. You know what WAS easy to find though? $5 Dasani water.

Extra Magical!

We walked around, people watched, and took in the fact that we were bearing witness to the American blueprint. The bigger, the louder, the more expensive, the more obnoxious, the better. I secretly hoped I would spot a fish out of water – some perplexed and equally annoyed Milanese woman who regretted buying into the hype. None in existence. They would never.

As with all things though, I like to find the good… the silver lining. And so, I will go on record to say it wasn’t ALL bad.

The kids had the time of their lives and that counts for a lot . One specific park was pretty cool and felt like an apocalyptic movie set, with every last detail taken into account. I even found a way to photograph it that made it read slightly cooler than it actually was (hot tip: avoid photos with any and all theme park people).

Access to transportation options from park to park was also abundant – from ferry boats on waterways, to gondolas in the sky, shuttle buses to and from hotels, and Lift services on mobile, moving around was fairly easy – as long as you remembered to plan for it that day and pre purchase everything via *the app* – the one you never wanted; the one that is now owning your fucking ass.

The rollercoaster lines were manageable too, with their twists and turns through artificial forests and other visual escapes put in place to no doubt keep the kids from being whiny assholes. Vaping weed the entire time also helped ease the pain, as did take-away cups of alcohol, because in the US, one ounce means two, and you’re permitted to drink anywhere in public.

Ok ok, THAT is magical.

By the end of our three day stay, I was ready to punch a giant mouse in the dick.

Returning home with an emotional support theme park stuffie clenched tightly in my arms was akin to a come down from chemical drugs. I sat in the car and felt my body go through the motions reminiscent of decades past, after an afterparty had finally wrapped and I was left alone with the demise of my physical, emotional, and mental state, wondering if I’d ever recover.

I was dead inside.There was nothing left to say, nothing left to feel.

Later that day, as I contemplated my life over an egg sandwich from Dunkin Donuts on a highway pit stop, I made a promise to myself that it was my first and last time living the American dream, also known as my greatest nightmare. See you never.