In exchange for forty hours a week of mind-numbing torture, my employer allows me to use our airline to fly freely across the country. (Of course, this is utterly useless this week, but that is a different story)
Last Tuesday,I had originally planned on heading to Seattle for a day of perusing Pike Place Market and shopping along the waterfront. The friends with whom I was supposed to travel canceled at the last minute, and I was left looking forlorn on my bed, discussing possible alternatives to my cat. (Don't do this, cats really don't care)
The Goddess obviously heard my quandary, since my good friend Janice rang the phone shortly after. "Let's go to Disneyland!" She said. How could I say no?
Getting there, however, was a comedy of errors that could only happen to me.
You see, really, it started at the airport. I made the mistake of showing the TSA agent my airline ID going through the line. Having lost 140 [EDIT: 152 lbs now! -Germán] pounds since that photo was taken, I can safely say that I resemble nothing like the Hutt pictured. The TSA agent looks at my badge, looks at me, looks at the badge again, arches an eyebrow, then marks the boarding pass with indecipherable hieroglyphics that could only mean "rectal search" in federal shorthand. Off he pointed into a shadowy abyss, where I was soon acquainted with large man named Lars and a metal wand.
Later, an announcement was made that our flight to Portland was delayed. We were supposed to make a connection there and head directly to Orange County, but we would now miss our flight and that was unacceptable. I noticed that the non-stop to Los Angeles was open, and so to Los Angeles we went.
I love LAX. I really don't care what anyone says. The musty smell upon arriving at Terminal 3 reminds me that I am in Southern California once more and authentic Mexican food and Starbucks baristas actually able to pronounce my name are only moments away. I also love re-enacting scenes from Jackie Brown in the Rainbow Hallway.
Once that was done, we boarded shuttle to take us to The Happiest Place on Earth. Except, it wasn't quite the official shuttle we were looking for. The Disneyland Express (or whatever it's called) wasn't the bus with Mickey ears rounding the corner at Terminal 3. Instead, we were greeted by a rotund man with a thick East-coast accent driving a brown rapist van with no windows. He offered us a ride at a decent rate. Janice and I, being the adventures that we are, stepped into the van and hoped for the best.
I couldn't help but notice the faint smell of Funyuns that permeated the shag carpet in the interior. As the driver settled into the seat, his largess spilled over the armrest, exposed to the air vent. This, in turn, created a fell wind that suffocated us in the back. Janice and I exchanged side glances as he started to drive, and the same thought ran trough our heads. I am going to die. This man is going to take us to the desert, get us out of the car, and shoot us. All because I had to pay five dollars less to get to Disneyland. Damn my thrifty ways.
The driver simply would not shut up. The entire drive over, he told us his endless tale of the time he was a caterer on the set of Die Hard. We learned that Die Hard was filmed during an incredibly hot winter, that the permits to film at LAX were extremely hard to get, and that Bruce Willis is a pretty amiable chap who loves his turkey and Swiss.
Eventually, after a detour through Compton, we arrived at the Holiday Inn Anaheim. After a bleach shower to get rid of the Funyun stank, we took the shuttle to Disneyland.
Once upon a time, I used to be employed by the Walt Disney World Resort in Orlando. I was given may complimentary park hopper passes, which I kept. Knowing that I could exchange these passes from Disney World to Disneyland, I approached the customer service counter and flashed a grin.
I was denied. Yes, you can exchange Disney World to Disneyland tickets, but only if they were not comped. 94 dollars please.
The rest of the day was relatively uneventful. We rode rides. We walked miles. We acted like large children. I think I need to go back...
You will have to excuse the poor quality of the above photos. My crappy camera phone will only do so much.
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1 comment:
G.Felix, When you go back I want to go with you. I miss the mouse.
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