Mouse Trap
Normally, you wouldn't catch me dead anywhere near a Disneyland resort, panting at the gates waiting to start my magical day out. But at £200 a pop, the opportunity to leave my cramped, claustrophobic quarters for a long-unvisited world of double beds, minibars and Jacuzzis, given the somewhat Faustian catch of it having to be sited in a perfect world of manicured lawns and heavily costumed staff (much like Trinity College really), I really could tolerate just that much saccharine sweetness.
Before long we were on the Eurostar train shooting straight into Disneyland Paris, though it seemed I was already overcompensating for the nauseatingly lovable and syrupy environment by experiencing stomach-ransacking indigestion. Indeed, even as we stepped out into our themed hotel with minutely-researched colour coordination, I was already overturning the notion of it being a land of kitsch comfort, where princes and princesses have no need to eat, are never ill and where everything runs flawlessly like they were on the rails of the multi-various roller-coasters.
Having recovered slightly after some time, I was to briefly become sick to my stomach again about the entire park being an exercise in capitalism where everything was expressly designed to eke out the maximum dollar from its visitors, and where the irony of having a warm, friendly and reassuring atmosphere being executed so clinically, like a spark plug factory, was lost on most of the diminutive, restless and colicky guests. Of course, such a cynical attitude would have ruined any enjoyment that the park would have to offer, the Great Time that I would have, so, probably, much like the furry mascots that ply their trade on the boardwalks, I hid it under a loud, brightly-coloured outfit with requisite bells and whistles and set off, perhaps, to rediscover vestiges of my childhood. After all, it's a very short time in a child's life when they believe in princesses and fairy tales with happy endings.
We pushed out with the thousands of other inhabitants of this kingdom on the warmest afternoon I'd had in three months, and knocked straight into a parade floating down Main Street, tens of Disney Characters waving benevolently downwards from their pedestals festooned with miles and ribbons and a galaxy of stars and sequins; the Snow White, arm-in-arm with her handsome prince; Cinderella and her inch-thick makeup, and all the others going by in their golden carriages, their courtiers bowing and dancing behind. As I stared out the sun-glazed window, it reminded me somewhat of the days far behind when I used to watch these characters on scratchy VHS tapes on the television, though that was shortly followed by remembering a quote from Fight Club that "…are the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world," to which I chuckled more than I should have.
Naturally, we were looking for some more "adult-oriented" fun, which could only be provided by the supposedly white-knuckle rides that turned out to be a walk-in-the-park on the roller-coaster scheme of things, which was only to be expected, because people don't throw up in the magical kingdom, and such dissidents are rapidly spirited away for not playing by the rules. A common theme of conversation was thus about the various aspects of the park that sought to redefine what we had come to expect by the words "sweet" and "mind-numbingly, world-destroyingly cute".
The overt salesmanship weighed heavily upon all the visitors, like a shocking pall of capitalism over the pink and golden turrets on the horizon. Everywhere one was funnelled into some shop or another, to marvel at all the merchandise one thought one never needed, and mountains of Minnies and piles of Plutos. If I were not so distracted by the shimmering attractions I might also be lamenting the stranglehold Nestlé had on the ice cream market and the massive shameless external sponsorship from the juggernauts of capitalism like McDonalds and French Telecom and the like.
But in the midst of such a charade (but such a pleasant, enjoyable charade it was) it begs the question whether the world would be better off if there was so much more innocence in it, especially the "It's a Small World" ride, where Arabs were playing drums and smoking pipes instead of shooting guns and rifles, and the Irish weren't busy burning things down, and so on. In such a faux plastic world with its one song soundtrack, they might not have a life, but there was no death either. It induced for a short moment hazy dreams of a peaceful co-existence until, fittingly, the boat jolted as it bumped into the one in front, and once again tempers were raised in the interminable queue outside.
I returned with a fair bit of merchandise, having lived the high life (as high as it could be in a Lilliputian world made for children and their somewhat bored parents) in good company. Indeed, travel doesn't have to be all about discovering new worlds, sometimes ones that we've just forgotten about.
