To enter Disney World is to enter a world of illusion made possible by the company’s unparalleled attention to detail. Three handsome sailors stride past, looking as if they’re on leave for Fleet Week. At the edge of the ersatz bay is a decorative lighthouse in the distance, an old-fashioned boardwalk hugs a curve of shore. New York this morning was leaden and cold, but the Yacht Club is all cerulean sky and emerald lawn and beds of flowers wafting a sweet, subtle perfume. The place evokes nineteenth-century Martha’s Vineyard, except with palm trees and powerboats. $3.50ĭisney’s Yacht Club Resort, the first of four hotels where I’ll stay, is part of a 1,200-room complex of cupola-topped gray-and-white buildings sited on a 25-acre Disney-made lake. Okay, Disney, I think, as the wheels start turning and an orientation video begins to play, work your magic. Just off the plane from New York, on the curb at Orlando International Airport, I board Disney’s Magical Express bus service for the place where dreams come true. It’s an escape, a kind of regression therapy set to the tune of “It’s a Small World.”
And it isn’t just that the place offers something for everyone, she tells me: At Disney, one is allowed to embrace one’s inner child, the happy innocent who is full of wonder and not afraid to look like a dork. “You just have to embrace the cheesiness,” Marie says, before she starts going on about fireworks displays, rides, live entertainment, and lazing by the pool with a book. I was flabbergasted to learn that she and her husband, a corporate chairman (they now live in Connecticut), have visited Disney dozens of times-with their kids and without. “Oh, my gosh, I love Disney!” gushes Marie Bostwick, a best-selling novelist who once up and moved to Mexico City for the adventure of it. It turns out that plenty of my cosmopolitan friends can’t get enough of the The Most Magical Place on Earth-a fetish I’ve discovered only recently, now that everyone posts their vacation plans on Facebook.
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