California Disneyland
Fly Economy My Pretties
There is something the Australian government never tells you when you are born, and that is just how far away Australia is from literally everywhere. Sure, we have free healthcare, relatively low crime rates for a developed country, and we are one of the few places in the world where you could survive the nuclear winter we all know is coming. But devastatingly, we have no Disney Parks and due largely to a lack of domestic market, likely never will. This. This is painful to me. 10 of the world’s 10 most venomous snakes? Meh. 9 of the world’s 10 most deadly sea creatures. She’ll be right. But no Disney Park? Waaaaah! It’s enough to make any Disney lover burst into tears, dive onto their Toy Story bedspread, push their stuffed Sven to the floor, and beat the mattress with clenched fists.
So, it goes without saying that we feel the compulsion to springboard our fleshy bodies into a wood chipper whenever we hear Americans complain about the astronomical cost of taking their families to Disneyland. Especially when it costs far flung travellers like us upwards of $4,000 before we even set foot in the country, let alone the park. Worse still, we can’t just hit the skies, watch a movie, eat a bag of nuts, and land in the mid afternoon. No, we arrive sleep-deprived, constipated, and in near rigor mortis from a 15-hour torture fest that is the flight from Sydney to Los Angeles.
Urgh, just thinking about it gives me sciatica, because here’s the real skinny. Like Paris Fashion Week model ‘I-can-see-your-skeleton’ skinny. Flying. Economy. Is. Uncomfortable.
No matter what you do, aside from downing a handful of horse tranquillisers your neighbour gave you in exchange for an alibi, if you are on an economy flight and plan to remain on it until it lands, you are going to be uncomfortable.
Flying economy is a WWII Battle of the Bulge-style assault, and not just because you are forcibly crammed into a 3-4-3 seat configuration with a ‘plus-sized’ traveller everyone was praying to their respective deity wouldn’t be in their row. But because flying economy fights you on your feet, it fights you on your knees, it flanks your arse, attacks your back, blitzkriegs your neck, napalms your throat, and evaporates your eyes and your sense of humanity.
Swap out the bombs for severe turbulence, the rat-a-tat-a-tat of submachine gun fire for the violent tapping of a fellow traveller’s finger drunkenly poking the entertainment screen on your seat back, and the stench of death with the vapour from half a million sweaty perineums emanating from the seat cushions, and it is pretty much the same. It is 1944, and you are in the trenches, soldier. Well, not trenches per se, but an aluminium fart tube 30,000 feet in the air.
…the vapour from half a million sweaty taints emanating from the seat cushions…
And although we are seasoned travellers, and have prepared ourselves to the best of our ability, this particular flight – our fourth to Los Angeles, was expected to be no different. At least it was, until the flight stewards closed and armed all doors. And that is when everything changed.
Until this point, we had spent the better part of an hour sitting at the airport, merely amused by how few people were around. Thanks in part to Beth’s impassioned pleas, we arrived with a comfortable number of hours of leeway. We meandered into high-end stores to be summarily given the side eye for giggling childishly at the duty-free bags (well, I sure hope they are!), purchased a bagel that would soon stress the airplane bathroom #### But when we arrived at the departure gate, we found that we had ample choices of uncomfortable seating. It looked like what Democrats claim a MAGA rally looked like, or what Republicans claim a Kamala rally looked like: Sparse. I counted around 20 people, all spread out across the plentiful seating like Domino’s toppings. The usual excitement of being spoilt for choice was stepping aside to make room for growing concern. Glancing around, tugging at our collars, we found ourselves questioning whether we had misread the gate number. And it was at this time that one of the few passengers came up to us and asked, “What’s that there decal on your hat?”.
We were sporting some rather handmade-looking hats emblazoned with our new travel logo, DINKS being DINKS. One of a few steps we had taken in our attempt to document our travels and become whiny, entitled influencers. Sitting there looking up at this man I had forgotten we had done this and he just stood there, looking at us expectedly while awaiting our reply. When we remembered we weren’t just wearing stock standard hats, we politely and quietly explained what it meant and what we were doing and in response he demonstratively refused to match our chilled energy and let out a violent laugh akin to a midwestern cartoon villain.
“DINKS! I love it! Well, good luck and happy travels!” he exclaimed as he trundled off to his priority business class boarding, chuckling to himself. As far as first holiday interactions go, this one really tickled me. Last time we flew through Los Angeles to Florida, I merely got a “Sick jacket, bro” from a local with an accent that suggested he had either caught the best wave of his life or knew how to make a bong out of common Airport bathroom items.
…he had either caught the best wave of his life or knew how to make a bong out of common Airport bathroom items…
Once our midwestern friend had boarded, the call went out to the rest of us to board. Not Qantas Club members, not rows 40 through 60, just passengers flying on QF11. So we picked up our carry-on and nervously made our way to the check-in, shuffled down the aerobridge, boarded the plane, and found our seats. Now, when I tell you that there was no one in our section, I don’t mean there was nobody seated in the rows around us, I mean there was not a single additional soul from the mid-plane toilets to the ‘kitchen’. We were about to experience one of life’s greatest joys: The Poor Man’s Business Class.
But we were determined not to get our hopes up just yet. I have a habit of doing this any time I board a train at Sydney Central at 11:00 pm. I sit, comfortable and alone, until three minutes before departure and suddenly, before I can take my last breath of fresh air, I’m packed in with every Bluetooth speaker-toting, open-mouthed chewing, Lynx deodorant-soaked, rap-wannabe that could crawl out from under Sydney’s many tunnels. I was not going to suffer this level of disappointment again. So I tempered my excitement and just sat, unblinkingly focused on the aisle to the door.
And then it happened. Those eight glorious words. “Cabin crew, arm all doors and cross-check”. I looked over to Beth, rotating my head with the speed and agape mouth of a carnival clown, and the moment we lock eyes, the excitement erupts out of us like the Chestburster Alien.
We checked with the cabin crew, who were a little nonchalant about it, whether this was normal, and they responded with “it happens, and it can actually be a rather boring workday for us”. To which we assured them we would do our best to keep things interesting with ridiculous requests for assistance. Hot towels. Tim Tams. Barry Manilow figurines. And it was then that the captain of our private plane made an announcement. “Ladies and gentlemen I’d just like to welcome you to Qantas flight… blah, blah, captaincy words etc… It would seem as though we have a very light plane today and if you would like to move to another section of the plane for more privacy or comfort you may do so, we just ask that you remain in your assigned seat for takeoff and return for landing”
…Hot towels. Tim Tams. Barry Manilow figurines…
After a rather short and smooth takeoff, aided by the lack of cargo and a slight headwind, we ascended, and Beth and I made plans for our sleeping arrangements. We were seated in the middle four-seat row of a 3-4-3 arrangement right up against the snack vestibule. The plan was simple: I’d remain here, and Beth would move to the row in front. Easy. But until then, still at the point in our relationship where we enjoyed each other’s company, we’d sit together to play games, eat, and critique movies. We were yet to understand that some people were travelling alone and not everyone felt the same way about their significant others.
Once we climbed to 10,000 feet, the seatbelt sign was extinguished, a subtle dong rang out across the cabin, and with it, a chorus of unbuckling and a tidal wave of front-planers quickly engulfed our section. We watched like we were witnessing a natural disaster, until we were compelled to hastily and somewhat forcefully lay claim to our two rows. Sadly, we had to separate in order to remain together. But in fairness, it was still glorious. Stretched out across four seats, blood freely flowing from our extremities, and no one to feel the vibration of an errant fart. It’s just that we now have neighbours. But what kind of neighbours?
Firstly, it was a girl with ‘allergies’ to our left, who, aside from bringing her ‘allergies’, also brought with her upwards of 30 pillows, her arms loaded up like a pack mule on her journey to her new location, bumping every row as she went by before finally cocooning herself into the three-seater row. Then there were the middle-aged shandy drinkers who encroached on our four-seater row in front of us, desperate to get away from their chainsaw snoring husbands and have a ‘girls’ night’ in our neighbourhood. And to our right, the usual neckbeard with comically oversized headphones. Not the worst of neighbours, and we all kept to ourselves. So, for the following 14 hours, we all rotated through the stages of flying: Eat, drink, watch, sleep, pee, eat, drink, watch, sleep, pee, watch, land.
And with that, we debarked the plane, bid farewell to the last Aussie accents we would hear for the next 40 days, and braced ourselves for the flood of R’s we would be subjected to in the rhotic land of America.
We were in Los Angeles. Now, let the fun begin.
The Candy Cane Inn
This isn’t our first trip to California Disneyland, having travelled here for a Disney 100 trip a few years prior, but it was our first stay at the most adorable, off-property location in Anaheim: The Candy Cane Inn. Doesn’t it just sound appealing? I mean, you could name anything after a sweet treat and get the same results: The Lollypop Lodge, Gumdrop Guesthouse, Butterfinger Bed and Breakfast. Though maybe not the last one. I imagine you would have to field unsavoury calls from would-be guests who mistook it for the Buttfingerer Bed and Breakfast. Other than that, I’d go to any of them.
But The Candy Cane Inn, oh, it was in our dreams from the moment we first saw the adorable trolley car trundling down the boulevard, its driver enthusiastically waving his giant Mickey hand at every passerby whenever stopped at a set of lights. Unfortunately, for us, during our first trip, we were merely those passersby. Trudging our way to Disneyland through thick plumes of pot smoke like we were extras in ‘Cheech And Chong Do Disneyland’. Our hotel at the time was a few blocks away from the Disneyland bubble and severely lacked the amenities that would normally allow a hotel to remove the ‘S’ from hostel. It was called the Candlewood Inn. And don’t get me wrong, it was great; If you are into long, Stanley Kubrick-esque hallways that reek of wet socks and parental disapproval, creepy garages that were probably the shooting location of a recent snuff film, and the general vibe of a place where screams for help are as common as wolf-whistles.
Thankfully, we had the good sense to book our preferred hotel this time; Part of our ongoing belief that one should save for the holiday they want, not the one they can just afford. In fairness to The Candy Cane Inn, though it is pricier than the Cadlewood, it is much more reasonable than an on-property hotel. And any lingering thoughts of money evaporated the very moment our Uber pulled into the driveway, rounded the water fountain, and pulled up under the arched canopy. Walking into the foyer as two beleaguered, plane-ragged tourists, an exuberant and friendly clerk looked up, smiled a perfect Californian smile and enthusiastically exclaimed, “Welcome! And happy Valentine’s Day!”.
The desk and surrounding areas were dotted with candy-cane-shaped pens that had been neatly arranged into elongated hearts just for the occasion. Which was a touch we genuinely appreciated, as we had celebrated the 14th of February for nearly 40 hours so far without so much as a fat naked baby to speak of. The air was thick with the smell of coffee and hot chocolate from the beverage table by the window, and, despite my aversion to any and all American coffee, I was so exhausted I would have freely drunk this ‘burnt garden fertiliser’ before common sense could stop me. And before all you Joffrey’s cultists get all jittery and riled up, have a glass of water, flush the Shaky Jamaky from your system, and hear me when I say: There is a reason Australia is regarded as possessing an exceptional coffee culture, even when you factor in that we aren’t a major coffee-growing region; it’s one of the only things we take seriously. So don’t go sending me packets of Roastmaster’s Reserve; nobody deserves that.
…I would have freely drunk this ‘burnt garden fertiliser’ before common sense could stop me…
Check-in at the Candy Cane Inn was not just easy, but even through the thick fog of exhaustion, it was fun. She poked fun at our accents, and we poked fun at hers. The clerk was attentive to our needs and even understood the vague questions our plane air-dehydrated brains could manage to convert to speech. After handing us our keycards and directing us to our rooms, we grabbed our bags and several candy-cane-shaped pens and trundled our cases out through the breakfast area and into the courtyard.
The quaint courtyard is home to a tourist soup bowl (a pool), striped umbrellas, and ample shared seating, and is flanked by dual two-story wings. The property is dotted with palm trees, and the parking lot is a piano of monochrome Yank-tanks and EVs. Our room is on the second floor, just to the right of the main reception, and our only criticism of the entire space is: stairs. But once I had, in a rare display of masculinity, carried both our cases up, we entered the room that was to be our home for the next two nights.
How do I describe the room? As a man who just spent a considerable amount of time detailing the banal activity that is a flight from Sydney to LA, I find myself with only one word: American. The room is just so… American. But that is less of a visual description and more of a feeling. It was clean, with two queen beds, and lots of amenities, including the customary burnt fertiliser maker next to the bathroom sink. While the plantations style shutters didn’t block out all the light, they served as a reminder that there was a bright and exciting world out there, experiences to be had, people to meet, and a whole freaking Disneyland to conquer! I was not in the mood for this at all. At this point, all I wanted to do was shower, curl up in one of those queen beds that were provocatively calling my name, and just sleep. But, alas, we had shit to do. So after documenting the room for the fledgling social media empire we were building (I say with my tongue so firmly lodged in my cheek I look like I’m smuggling a gold ball in my mouth), we unpacked our suitcase, headed out onto the Boulevard, and dragged our stiff bodies to Downtown Disney for dinner before retiring to bed. If we were going to make it through the next two days, we were going to need some rest.
No Trolley Car Problems
The day is finally here! We wake early in the morning, well, early by our standards. We are by no means young enough to be rope droppers, and this holiday is not a sprint, and not just because sprinting hurts my significant waist deposits. And I know this is tangential, but the market for sports girdles isn’t quite as glamorous as it is for sports bras, is it? Anyway, we check the weather, rifle through our suitcase for the appropriate garb while paying close attention not to disturb the hazmat bag yesterday’s plane clothes are incubating in, derobe to the horror of anyone looking in through the thin slits in the plantation slats, and suit up for breakfast.
Breakfast is buffet style by the pool, and we are determined to show our American hosts why Australia doesn’t deserve its spot next to them in the world’s top 5 obese nations by loading our plates up with no more than 75% of that being loaded onto plates in our vicinity. Don’t worry, we’re just being coy while we find our feet before they disappear behind our bloated stomachs by day 7. With our plates loaded with a bagel and ‘schmear’, a boiled egg, some fruit, and a yogurt, we head out to the pool to find a sunny spot to sit and bask in the glory of our ‘healthiness’. Once we realise no one cares, we head to the automatic machine for a second breakfast of pancakes, butter, and maple-‘flavoured’ syrup.
Satisfied we will be able to make it to our first snack in the park without whining like the children we have deftly avoided thus far, we head out to the antique trolley car stand for our pickup. I know what you must be wondering: does it live up to the hype? Unquestionably! Seated in two rows facing other equally excited families and hen’s party groups, we trundle down the Boulevard. As expected, every time we hit a red light, our driver pulls to a stop, slips on his outrageously oversized Mickey hand and waves to the delight of children and adults alike. We have finally made it into the ‘Disney Bubble’, and for those of you who have been in it, there is no need to explain it to you. But for those of you who haven’t, well, there is just no explaining it to you! It is a feeling like no other.
Deboarding the trolley car, the driver lets everyone know the schedule for the last trolley back, and we head to the security line. This is where the remarks on human behaviour begin, and they don’t end until we arrive back at the hotel. Security lines at California Disneyland can be simple and quick, assuming you go for the line that is the greatest distance away from your starting point. Due to the fact that most people are already tallying their steps and forecasting just how much pain their heels, arches, toes, calves, or knees will be by the afternoon, regardless of how much they spent on their new Hokas, everyone floods the lines closest to them like a bell curve graph. But if you simply turn to the left or the right, assuming you aren’t rope dropping, the lines are empty but for a few staff waving visitors over in vain. So we head off to the wasteland lines for our bag check like the cheeky little outliers we are. But, here is the downside: having just spent the last hour scrolling through their Instagram feed, security staff may well loathe you for prompting them to do the work they were employed to do. So they may attempt to kill the Disney buzz you have going on by angrily poking at your camera gear, ripping rather than unzipping the pockets, and ‘titching’ at your cute Axolotl stickers. Not today, though, mate. Nothing can evaporate the magic in my freaking heart this morning!
Minnesota Nice
Once through the bag check, we head into the open area and begin searching. Not for the entry to Disneyland. No, we are looking for someone in particular. Someone we have come to know well over the last few months – Jennifer McCormack, our travel agent from Mickey Travels. Now, before we are accused of ‘cheating’, ‘not planning this holiday on our own’ and therefore ‘not qualified to give advice’, calm down, your honour, the great adjudicator of vacation planning justice: we never intended to do this alone. This holiday was far too complex to do ourselves.
So we offloaded the American leg to someone gracious enough to handle the burden while we focused on the European and Asian parks. And we couldn’t be happier that we did. The months of back and forth with Jennifer had been an absolute riot, and not just because she appreciated my long-winded, ranty, and tangential emails. She was incredibly kind, generous with her time, and her experience is unmatched. We threw every naive idea at her, and she would help us make a plan. We forgot important details and made super last-minute decisions, and she would help us pivot with the grace of Tonya Harding – you know, before the whole ‘knee bludgeoning’ incident, of course. And when we poked fun at her health care system, she quietly cried in the office. Full credit goes to her for the next seven days of Disney adventures. The good parts, that it.
…And when we poked fun at her health care system, she quietly cried in the office…
Note: We have no affiliate links to Mickey Travels; we simply remembered their name from our hours of Resort TV1 viewing. So this is a purely unsolicited and unrewarded smoke-blowing endeavour.
In another display of ‘sweet Jesus, lady, stop being so kind!’ She had offered to meet us at the park on our first day, as, serendipitously, it aligned with the last day of hers. And when we rounded the corner, there was no missing her. Standing by the trees, beaming a kind Minnesotan smile. We head over and share a warm embrace before spending the next half an hour or so just ‘having a good ol’ time talking things over’. We talk about her holiday, her time on Disney Treasure, her family, our trip so far (despite it being in its infancy), and our hopes for the rest of the trip. It is important to note here that when you take into account the ungodly amount of money we had dropped on this holiday, you would think we would be itching to get into the park to make the most of our time. But if you’ll allow me to put down my sarcasm blunderbuss for a moment and offer a rare moment of sincerity. The magic of Disney, or travel in general, really, is in the relationships you are lucky enough to make along the way. By nature of being able to travel at all, you are undeniably lucky, and as a result of that travel, have the opportunity to meet people you would otherwise have never met.
There, crochet that on a pillow, cross-stitch it surrounded by national monuments onto, ah, cross-stitching fabric? Whatever your medium of choice, regardless of how cliché it may seem, the message is by no means less accurate or impactful for its rampant overuse. The brief but meaningful friendships found in those brief but meaningful moments are contextual anchors to your journey. Jennifer McCormack, Cam and Laurie, Jeff and Jennifer. Over our last few holidays, these brief friends and the memories we shared with them are often at the forefront of our minds when we reflect on our experience, regardless of the small number of days they occupied throughout the journey. And it is this belief that has led us to this moment, 3,500 words in, and we still aren’t in the goddamn park!
So, to move the story along, Jennifer wishes us well, and upon leaving, she hands us a gift bag filled with goodies for our trip. Some small gifts, some things we might need – the bag is practically overflowing with warm and fuzzies. We tell Jennifer to go back to Minnesota, because she’s skewing the kindness average of California, and after one last embrace, we are off and into the park (finally).
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