Wednesday, July 2, 2014

To InfiniTEA and Beyond!

I was not quite one year old when Disneyland opened in Anaheim, California in July of 1955. I was twelve by the time my family could afford to go there, the only vacation that ever took us farther than the Wisconsin Dells.

In the 1960s we watched Walt Disney’s The Wonderful World of Color on our black and white TV. Thinking back, I guess I filled in a lot of the colors with my imagination, or did so in hindsight after I saw the real thing. But Disneyland was heavily promoted on that show. Its construction was overseen by Walt Disney himself and was a hoped-for destination for most young baby boomers. Going there was a dream come true.

 

Disneyland was a day trip, lacking the on-property accommodations of the Buena Vista property that opened in Florida in 1971. So I drew heavily on memories many years later when my daughter Melissa was at the perfect age to take a trip to Orlando.

 

Entering the Magic Kingdom at Disney World gave me goose bumps, like visiting the home where you grew up after a thirty-year absence. It was familiar, but larger, newer and lacking the middle-of-Anaheim feel of the original. So, to say that our daughter ran us ragged is putting it mildly. We had a finite amount of time to see every corner of the park, from Frontierland to Liberty Square, and she wanted to see it all.

 

But it was in Fantasyland that she had the ride of her life.

 

We watched from a distance once we’d begun to experience motion sickness from previous rides, so she had to go it alone, and did so eagerly. But the list of un-ridden attractions was growing lean by late afternoon.

 

“What’s that one?” she asked running toward the Mad Hatter’s Teacup Ride. 

 

The line was short, perhaps because it was intended for smaller children, or maybe because it looked too tame. But it easily accommodated adults who needed to ride with kids.

 

Melissa waited for the swirling multi-colored platform to come to a stop and for riders to exit on the far side, leaving the teacup doors open behind them. She scampered to an empty cup and watched all the other vessels fill with parents and children, or small groups of older kids. She was alone and looked longingly at us, willing us to join her and make the ride worthwhile. After all, each cup had a central wheel that riders gripped and turned to spin the cup. The more riders, the better the ride. Being alone pretty much guaranteed an unexciting time, if she had the strength to turn the cup at all. 

 

We looked at each other and mumbled a few words, evaluating our queasiness. We were still a pale shade of green. As we talked, one more rider passed through the gate. He may have noticed our daughter’s plight and decided to do her a favor. He was a mountain of a man, a refrigerator with legs. He had a crew cut on his round head and looked to be about Hulk Hogan’s size, undoubtedly a professional wrestler. His t-shirt bulged with gym-fueled bulk, and his neck was pretty much hidden between his shoulders and jaw. He grinned ear-to-ear as he entered the cup, closed the door and was seated across from the comparatively tiny other rider.

 

He didn’t appear to say a word before the door was latched shut and the rotating platform began to move. Melissa gripped the central wheel and strained against the weight of the cup, the man and her. She was barely able to rotate it by more than a foot or so before releasing her grip and attempting again. By that time their motion had stopped. She looked across at him as if she’d failed. He allowed only a moment to lapse before smiling and grabbing the other side of the wheel. His arms bulged as he squeezed the metal ring and began to turn it like a man possessed, steering hand over hand to maximize control and momentum. No ship captain avoiding an iceberg has ever spun a wheel with more intensity or purpose. 

 

Melissa attempted to keep up with the motion of his Popeye-like forearms, matching his hands in a coordinated dance around the wheel, but failed almost immediately. Instead, she was thrown back into her seat by centrifugal force, plastered like pasta against the wall. He laughed like a madman now, getting an immense thrill out of the entertainment he was providing and from the ride itself. They were masters of the Mad Tea Party, spinning seemingly out of control. She saw only glimpses of us, laughing as she passed us at the periphery of the platform, rushing briefly past her dizzy gaze, a snapshot in time with each revolution. Any concern we might have had dissolved instantly as her obvious joy became apparent. 

 

Spinning faster now, the big man mastered a rhythm that allowed him to accelerate the cup further, throwing his head back on his thick neck and bellowing in a joyful outburst that caused people passing by to stop and watch. They spun and spun and spun some more. Melissa was helplessly held against the side of the yellow cup, her shoulders pressed against the hard shell, her hair streaming behind. The obvious elation she felt in the dizzying spin was the stuff of childhood, the loss of control and lightness of being we leave behind as we age. She had the advantage of youthful resilience, her insides still tight within her young body, but with arms that felt like concrete. Lifting them was impossible, so she just sat and laughed, and laughed some more. And then the ride began to slow.

 

Soon it was over. The man let out a sigh and mopped his brow with the back of his bear-like hand. Melissa thanked him, still giggling, and then left the cup, dizzy and barely able to stand. The cute little teacups silently awaited their next victims, colorful and motionless. Meanwhile, the line for the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party was noticeably longer as we headed off to Space Mountain, and the big man disappeared into the crowd.