“What are you adopting, a dog?” sincere blue eyes of an US Customs officer with citation plaque on his lapel starred deep in my soul. Sure, it could have been the cheque made up to “Shepherd’s Care Adoptions” that prompted his particularly insightful remark or it could have been one of those well-trained zingers to coax some terror related info out of the unsuspected. I really do not his reason for such a hard dig at serendipity, but I have to see that dog that could fetch cool $19,200 US no less in all his adopting glory.
Waved in after a thorough head to toe check, we proceeded down the final path to the city where dreams come true; at least Disney claims that for a mere $60 per day. Our price tag was to be somewhat higher since dealing in market for an alive and cuddly kid of our own did not promise to be as economical as patting a Mickey Mouse suit, donned over someone possibly much less attractive but fortunately well-covered and affordable. We, on the other hand, were preparing for a little more committed step of taking care of diapers, sour milk and burping for some foreseeable future.
On this plain men and women tend to work on different plain – what a novelty! Well, when a woman receives news of an impending adoption with only few days to spare for pre-natal agony, she is resolved to sweep aside any obstacles with one wide swath of a mother-bear. Baby outfits, pinkie toes and a glowing look of maternity instinct satisfied are already upon her and she has not even seen the baby yet! Man, suddenly, feels betrayed and caged just like a wild animal. Sure, they give you a candy once in a while to winkle out your best for sold-out circus performances with thousands giving accolades for jumping, prancing and in all other ways yielding to the whip of a tamer. However, no manner of good behaviour leaves any illusion as to man’s real station in life when after each performance he is led back to the cage. Well, at least his fodder is decent. Not any more! Baby becomes all consuming priority and now his meals are leaner and work is tougher, all the while bills keep coming.
Mickey’s Land
Descending down a ramp at Orlando with a face full of gusts of heavy warm syrup called air in this neck of the woods was a palpable reminder that our life was about to change - a real turn, none of those Mickey impersonations well fed with airline crackers and pop. Suddenly, everything was foreign, tropical and commercial, with a Ricky Suave at the car rental counter refusing to give up before showering us with a plethora of offers ranging from upgrades to a convertible to the much maligned and atrociously over-priced insurance coverage. He must have skipped on the illuminating Seinfeldian insights into the general human condition. Oh well, I chose to sympathise and softly succumbed to some pre-paid gas tank option.
Safely on our way, we could barely navigate in the sick watery clouds that demanded a good deal of tear and wear on our wipers, just like a common Vancouver drizzle. I struggled to make out road signs that prominently featured harbingers of incoming tolls. Just like that, and we had already started parting with our valuable US cash. You pay or else…
“Here is your change, thank you” we starred silently at the tiny apparition with wrinkles as frequent as spaghetti in a generous helping of a meatball special.
“I thought old people stayed home collecting Social Security and playing bingo” Tracy was attempting to digest rough turns of life that offered pollution laced air instead of afternoon tea in a local lawn bowling club.
“Get used to it, baby. This is America and they like it random, sort of like Russian roulette. No collective misery for individual misfortunes” despite 3AM I attempted to stay philosophical.
Another toll was coming at us with a breakneck speed.
“If I see another grandma I am going to scream!” Tracy’s fears were unfounded as this booth was manned by a youngish dude with rap booming off his glass and steel perch – “That will be a dollar, thanks”
Our off-ramp did not offer any reprieve as another toll booth beckoned in the thick morning mist – 50 cents please. Americans must have a special affinity for these brick structures that exude enough authority to make anyone pay even if unmanned. It could have been way more efficient just to collect slightly more in income or sales taxes and forget about it. But with “taxes” being a dirty word in the American lexicon, tolls are the only option to rip off the unsuspecting citizens.
Being fresh off the boat, I had no change and the message “stay and wait if not in possession of exact change” did not deliver enough appeal at this hour. Instead I threw a bunch of pennies into the collector bucket. “Clunk” I just missed a sure lay-up, oh well screw it anyway and we drove off into the night.
Joy of Celebration
Now, the next best thing to having a free place to stay is to know someone who happens to be an owner of a timeshare with weeks to spare. My dear Sergey was just the guy with access to the best middle class schnooks like us could dream of. The place was just great – spacious, well-furnished and in possession on predictably underused Jacuzzi tub, yet another victim of effervescent consumerism.
With morning arriving way too soon we needed a strong cup of java to trick our bodies into semblance of requisite daily energy, the quality we desperately needed considering the weighty nature of the impending occasion – meeting our new son.
“Is there Starbucks nearby?”
“Sure, just a couple of minutes from here there is a town of Celebration. There is a shopping area with Starbucks and bunch of other stores” our front desks hosts were more than helpful.
This innocuous comment sent us into a whole new world of unexpected, as we swerved into Celebration Avenue neatly trimmed by perfectly manicured parks, white picket fences and immaculate small ponds with all sorts of exotic trees and soft grass so loved by all nightly creatures, alligators included. Suddenly, as if caught in an unforeseen summer thunderstorm we got showered from head to toe in magic soaking of a sensation that whisked us into an entirely different world of American utopia. The surrounding greenery yielded to first signs with of picture-perfect houses, spotless sidewalks and overwhelming harmony seeping from everywhere it seemed. No house had its equal in design, comfort and street appeal. This was not an ordinary cookie-cutter motive of middle class suburbs. This was a step above and light years away from people in the toll booths.
“Ouch!” some foreign and very acrid substance stung my eye to the point of suffering. I looked up and saw a soapy film covering the endless sky above – a bubble. It was shimmering and spitting with drips of magic flakes that reminded, from time to time, of the lucky insiders in their ever-lasting happiness. Wearing glasses was a perfect defence and we needed somebody and quick who could provide us with some details of this larger than imagination version of Truman Show.
Luckily, after driving by an incredible array of townhouses, apartments, offices and shops we parked right next to an electric car plugged into a special and perfectly positioned re-charging outlet. Here we encountered an un-glassed local grandma in all her soft and yet sturdy charms of well-established and very happy retirement.
“Hello, are you from here?” we had to act fast as grandma proved to be super agile in mounting her electric mobile with all accoutrements of responsible environmental practices and well-funded pension.
“Yes, is this your first time here?” her perfect English in Queen’s dialect could only heighten our curiosity.
“This place is amazing. All seems to be just so perfect and unreal. Do all locals get these electric cars for free?”
“If eleven thousand is not money then it is” she proudly caressed the wheel in a proud arch of happy possession.
We persisted in fishing out a myriad of cute details. It turned out that the town of Celebration was developed by Disney in their quest to create a perfect community with little if any dependence on interactions with the outside world rife with its problems of crime, poverty and wars. Who needs it when you can hide behind a soapy film for a price that could not fetch more than a two-bedroom condo in the middle of the crazy Manhattan with its disregard for rank, order or spotless sidewalks?
The town was first open for business some ten years ago and now boasts about ten thousand perfectly happy residents abiding in spaces ranging from two-bedroom apartments to ten-thousand square feet mansions in all fashions of rococo and adobe. Our grandma happened to be an insider who lived through the preceding years of price run-ups that have transformed Celebration into a town of wealthy and very wealthy.
“You see, the state of Florida, especially in these parts used to be a relatively cheap retirement spot - sort of Wal-Mart of sunset years, which later morphed into a Target version of the American dream after 55. Now, it is either Neumann Marcus or a shack next to a swamp” she concluded poignantly.
“Here we live in the shade of a great bubble with property taxes never far away to remind you of the reality when it comes to due dates. Who can really afford any of it? Just around the corner we have some places going for over $3M and all that for gator infested waterfront”
“Gator?” my ears perked for a savage novelty.
“Sure, there are plenty of them right in the middle of town where there is a lake. They are protected by law and allowed to stay in the lake till they get to about four feet. Then they transfer them somewhere else. By the way are you are fond of fishing?” she rang in her perfect Kent-onese.
“Not really”
“That’s a shame as our main lake is stocked with anything imaginable year around”
“Wow!” we could not contain the enchantment.
“By the way, if get bored just drive down the road there is one of those scary Christmas houses in full bloom. Apparently, the guy is using eighteen generators to keep it going - might be worth a look at night time. One thing though, be prepared to wait for parking as it gets busy”.
“And come back at night, we have snowfall four times every evening at the main street” she added.
“Snow! I have to see that”
“On Thanksgiving they had leaves falling now it is snow – a true mark of decadence” our local guide was happy to share just about any improbable wrinkle of local living.
“Who is paying for this all?”
“Property taxes are atrocious here” in all enthusiasm I almost forgot the beautiful American dream of low taxes, income taxes that is. Keep those low and charge for everything else through the nose – a great civic invention.
By now I was loaded for a bear with information. Proceeding to the main street that had been given to a farmers’ market for a nice Sunday afternoon could not have been any more idyllic. Freshly squeezed orange juices, organic pastas and French baked goodies were just irresistible. The latter was fully stocked with Parisian prices and accents to boot. Who cares though as for a mere four bucks you can get a delicious mouth-watering dainty with a chance to chat up a real Parisian? In fact, the place was just a honeycomb for anybody even remotely related to Luis the XIV as hardly any English was spoken around the stand and our Pan-Canadian French was taken at its face value with warts and all. I have to admit that speaking French with a Canadian flag on is one of the most exuberant patriotic excesses I could ever think of. We felt proud, full and delighted with contemplation of general lack of reality that swirled around our very eyes. Immaculate buildings, flawless people and the tranquil lake from a postcard – in short all my senses were delighted with this Disney-ing experience. Perfect!
Meeting Nicholas
Upon leaving the Truman Show I remembered a drastic absence of an air-fan, an absolutely necessary accoutrement of happy leaving. With time Zeitnot upon us, we moved into a direction of much despised purveyor of things less costly – Wal-mart. There amidst shiny fluorescent floors, clueless help and lacking in any diet advice, my senses managed to recover to a pre-Celebration state; perhaps a bit too soon as I hoped to make my adoption cheque writing experience as surreal as possible – how wishful!
Our first encounter with our new son, dear Nicholas, was as uplifting and special as it was prosaic as he was simply carried to us in a tight bundle across a small reception room in the humble offices of Adoption of Shepherd Care. A truly life changing experience but how do you make this really dramatic and unforgettable scene worthy of a minor Hollywood script? Hard to say, as we should have probably rehearsed running through the thickets of approving crowds, or negotiate a tight and explosive labyrinth of a last minute chase with explosions and firearms, or maybe we should have descended on helicopter into an inferno of rescue. None of that, you just walk in and seconds later you cling to your future tight in your hands. The future is hardly awake and barely responsive, and, most amazingly, very, very light. I hold my knuckle-white grip around the blankets as strenuously as I can lest weightless Nicholas escapes in his weightless glory. And yet despite all this fragility and brittleness beats a strong young heart with irrepressible sucking instincts and legs thinner that those of my cat. One could not help but fall in love, as we could barely manage to follow all possible handling instructions with Tracy writing a first draft of operations manual in her well-packed, lucid and rarely read script.
Nicholas’ handlers seemed just as delighted to see him go as we wanted to have him – better they could not be with warmer hearts, more tireless efforts and the warmest touches. We were all touched and near tears, departing with Nicholas and his loot. After all this was Disney and they do not like letting you go with hand empty. We were loaded up to the neck with toys, formula, blankets and other harbingers of sleepless nights.
Nicholas managed to plan the rest of our trip with nearly meticulous precision of three hour increments that mandated the tasks of mixing, holding, burping and cleaning. I tried to add some writing and voila, my hands and head were as sore as if beaten to pulp in one of those dramatic chases in yet another happy ending PG-rated feature. We resisted the imposed changes with our best. After all Nicholas was not likely to ask for car keys for few years yet and we were gearing up to explore more of local delights more to our liking. The first port of call was a hundred mile track somewhere south to partake in a lunch in the warm and joyous Cave company. To get there, we had to navigate to the Florida Turnpike through some more lived-in neighbourhoods in need of refurbishment. That’s where the regular folk of Disney spend their minimum wage and food stamps, as pavements betrayed all sorts of any imaginable cracks and many a window lacked some basic draping or even glass if it happened to have been burned out in some unfortunate insurance fire.
Luckily we made to the Turnpike although it was hard to imagine how anyone in this neck of the woods could afford the tolls. Unsuspecting, we jumped on the lonely road that stretched miles and miles on end without a single exit zooming past countless swamps, ugly rickety trees and occasional orange groves. Anything beyond was simply unobservable as the landscape was FLAT, FLAT, FLAT!
How I Got Full of Crock
It was a definite relief to reach our rendezvous point after a tasteless ride through the plains of Central Florida. Accidentally, I swear, we swerved into a wrong lane when clearing our exit with, what else, a toll booth. This one was for well-organized folks with pre-paid toll cards. Luckily, I did not have one as a desperate toll attendant waved me in gratis – I was more than curious to find out how much hard cold US cash I saved. Well, my return trip would clear all that up, but for now we were in the warm and chatty company of our friends who promptly took us to some local restaurant with an alligator in its name.
“Do you serve crocks here?” I was unrepentant in my persistence at calling local attractions by their cousin’s name. After all, what do you expect when you dealing with anyone coming from the depth of the Ukrainian tundra? How am I to know the difference?
“Sure, deep fried or broiled”
“Shrimp cocktail, boiled shrimp, barbequed shrimp, shrimp sandwich” Bubba Gump just kept ringing in his deathly grip on all things bottom feeding.
“We will try your special appetizer” I managed to rein in my desperate urge at impersonating the Spielberg’s creation. “By the way, do not they protect them here?”
“These are farmed” the waitress replied.
I guess when it comes to crocks farmed better than wild. Maybe we should convert all our farmed salmon industry into crock farms? At the very least, they will fit perfectly into all that splendid greenery of the Pacific Northwest and would not screw up with our pride – wild salmon.
Well, the rest tasted just like, you guessed it, chicken. It was rubbery with a chewy twist and your choice of spicy sauces. I reckon that from the crock’s perspective if you end up on a plate you might as well have some fun turning racy dance moves in a bunch of hot salsa.
Blasted Immigration
Three hours later, an early tropical sunset beaconed a dark lonely road back to Disney with an eight dollar toll as it turned out. We desperately needed some rest with tomorrow as it was the last day before our departure and we had not yet received an official paper from Immigration giving us a go-ahead to bring Nicholas home, to Canada. An important nuance as our tickets listed Vancouver as final destination.
The next morning we got back to work the phones with particular vengeance, trying to reverse our good work of waking up too many dragon heads at the Immigration. These, like little beavers, got to work in the most disjointed fashion best afforded by privately developed computer systems and enthusiastic management consultants. It was like trying to find a high spot on a water bed, when every time when just about to reach a piece of high soil and voila, you are back in the dumps. I was pretty close to blowing it, tired of climbing the impossible heights. The only restraining force was the need for gentle and careful handling that all government institutions demand.
Fortunately, God smiled on our phone hacking efforts that day and the issue managed to find its apogee in successful resolution. Besides, we got a bonus chance to chat up with the first and the most helpful victim of my phone pranks – Officer EM. His unknown name expressed in short and almost meaningless initials will be forever enshrined in our memorable efforts to scale the perfectly impregnable fortress of 800-numbers, fax hints and clandestine Mississauga operations.
Looking for Mickey
Finally, we were free to flee the humidity, traffic and heat towards refreshing winds of the Pacific Northwest or Southwest if you happen to have a certain patriotic proclivities. However, it felt sensible to dip a little toe in Disney, so tempting was the proximity announced by countless billboards and traffic signs that led to the Mickey’s layer. It was not as easy as first thought, since he managed to scatter signs of his presence with all skills of 007 throughout his humongous estate beset with groves, lawns, fences and misleading signs galore. It took at least a couple of false turns before we managed to locate Downtown Disney that was replete with just about anything to tickle our senses. Stores, restaurants, theatres and our best export of Circe du Soleil were well-enhanced by free and ample parking on the edge of the waterfront, artificial no doubt. The picture was as bright as it was perfect with only one personage refusing to advertise its presence in the least of forms – Mickey himself. Just imagine just about anything saleable and not a single public statute of the inspiration himself – they must have deemed commercial space too valuable to yield to the gratuitous demands of the noisome octogenarian. We were slightly distraught and needed a consolation prize that arrived with an amazingly tranquil lakefront, just feet away from swirling crowds enveloped in the clasps of unabashed consumerism. Just imagine having a water front with not a single store facing the right way, any sensible European would be appalled at such callousness to nature, no matter how artificial it might be! The corollary perk was of course a plenty of empty first rate benches gazing at the serene ripple-less lake navigated by soothing pleasure crafts and distant fireworks – a perfect cigarillo moment!
This Is Not a Dream
My dreams were rudely interrupted by persistent wails for feeding. Yes, this was not a vacation and my parental instincts had to wake up pronto with an impending trip to all places loathsome and yet expedient - Wal-Mart. In addition, I had to pull a bit of extra business there as our recent visit to the establishment had produced a bag that was left at the paws of the monster – I was determined to recover my rightfully purchased groceries totalling a whopping four bucks. At first, the task did not look all that simple as I had to endure a lengthy line-up in the most chaotic part of the store – Customer Service. The sheer first hand view of all that torn, mutilated and scratched packaging adorning mounds of products, hardly touched and already defunct, made me queasy. They really should be paying a hazard premium for working here! Eventually, my turn at the counter came to be. The remainder of the traumatic encounter proceeded in an unexpected fashion as my receipt was quickly tested versus a thick ledger replete with bad and ineligible handwriting.
“For once!” exclaimed a clerk with jubilant smile. Miraculously, my bottle of milk was located in the middle of this medieval madness - a truly remarkable event considering all the latest computer technology and most sophisticated logistics that made Wal-Mart the envy of competitors and detractors alike.
Happy to have escaped with my improbable booty we needed to complete our nearly perfect trip by paying a visit to the paragon of perfection itself – Celebration once again. This time the whole world showed up to witness a pre-scheduled snowfall. No nasty surprises and limited to just one street it could not have been any more joyous for children and more convenient for adults. Soap-flakes replaced everything cold and nasty with myriads of children dancing to Christmas music and under the delightful gazes of their parents. We could not escape the momentary enchantment and rushed into the middle of the soapy stage with suds reaching to our ankles and shrieks of joy that seemed a bit too early for Nicholas who burrowed his face deep in the blankets – give it few more years, I guess.
On the way back we could not resist checking-out a monster light display on the main street. At first, the sight did not promise anything but a display in turmoil with lights dancing indiscriminately all over the garish façade, roof, windows and anything resembling a tree or a bush in the front yard. Suddenly, the unfathomable display made all the sense in the world with us tuning to the advertised FM frequency. The music, piped from the house into the neighbourhood, gave the erratic disharmony a well-fitted cadence with lights echoing just about any imaginable Christmas tune in complete and mesmerizing synchrony. One, two, three songs into the concert we found it nearly irresistible and hard to leave our prime parking position right in front of the magic house but life was calling. One turn and rapidly fading FM tunes brought us back to existence with diapers, formula and an impeding transcontinental plane ride.
“Welcome to Canada, ah a new baby!” a friendly Canadian immigration officer was there to greet us after an uneventful series of flights that failed to as mush as wake up the baby and get us stuck in a thick nasty snow storm in Denver as our booking luck sent us to San Fran instead.
Welcome Home Nicholas!
P.S. want to call immigration? I just might have the number.
Waved in after a thorough head to toe check, we proceeded down the final path to the city where dreams come true; at least Disney claims that for a mere $60 per day. Our price tag was to be somewhat higher since dealing in market for an alive and cuddly kid of our own did not promise to be as economical as patting a Mickey Mouse suit, donned over someone possibly much less attractive but fortunately well-covered and affordable. We, on the other hand, were preparing for a little more committed step of taking care of diapers, sour milk and burping for some foreseeable future.
On this plain men and women tend to work on different plain – what a novelty! Well, when a woman receives news of an impending adoption with only few days to spare for pre-natal agony, she is resolved to sweep aside any obstacles with one wide swath of a mother-bear. Baby outfits, pinkie toes and a glowing look of maternity instinct satisfied are already upon her and she has not even seen the baby yet! Man, suddenly, feels betrayed and caged just like a wild animal. Sure, they give you a candy once in a while to winkle out your best for sold-out circus performances with thousands giving accolades for jumping, prancing and in all other ways yielding to the whip of a tamer. However, no manner of good behaviour leaves any illusion as to man’s real station in life when after each performance he is led back to the cage. Well, at least his fodder is decent. Not any more! Baby becomes all consuming priority and now his meals are leaner and work is tougher, all the while bills keep coming.
Mickey’s Land
Descending down a ramp at Orlando with a face full of gusts of heavy warm syrup called air in this neck of the woods was a palpable reminder that our life was about to change - a real turn, none of those Mickey impersonations well fed with airline crackers and pop. Suddenly, everything was foreign, tropical and commercial, with a Ricky Suave at the car rental counter refusing to give up before showering us with a plethora of offers ranging from upgrades to a convertible to the much maligned and atrociously over-priced insurance coverage. He must have skipped on the illuminating Seinfeldian insights into the general human condition. Oh well, I chose to sympathise and softly succumbed to some pre-paid gas tank option.
Safely on our way, we could barely navigate in the sick watery clouds that demanded a good deal of tear and wear on our wipers, just like a common Vancouver drizzle. I struggled to make out road signs that prominently featured harbingers of incoming tolls. Just like that, and we had already started parting with our valuable US cash. You pay or else…
“Here is your change, thank you” we starred silently at the tiny apparition with wrinkles as frequent as spaghetti in a generous helping of a meatball special.
“I thought old people stayed home collecting Social Security and playing bingo” Tracy was attempting to digest rough turns of life that offered pollution laced air instead of afternoon tea in a local lawn bowling club.
“Get used to it, baby. This is America and they like it random, sort of like Russian roulette. No collective misery for individual misfortunes” despite 3AM I attempted to stay philosophical.
Another toll was coming at us with a breakneck speed.
“If I see another grandma I am going to scream!” Tracy’s fears were unfounded as this booth was manned by a youngish dude with rap booming off his glass and steel perch – “That will be a dollar, thanks”
Our off-ramp did not offer any reprieve as another toll booth beckoned in the thick morning mist – 50 cents please. Americans must have a special affinity for these brick structures that exude enough authority to make anyone pay even if unmanned. It could have been way more efficient just to collect slightly more in income or sales taxes and forget about it. But with “taxes” being a dirty word in the American lexicon, tolls are the only option to rip off the unsuspecting citizens.
Being fresh off the boat, I had no change and the message “stay and wait if not in possession of exact change” did not deliver enough appeal at this hour. Instead I threw a bunch of pennies into the collector bucket. “Clunk” I just missed a sure lay-up, oh well screw it anyway and we drove off into the night.
Joy of Celebration
Now, the next best thing to having a free place to stay is to know someone who happens to be an owner of a timeshare with weeks to spare. My dear Sergey was just the guy with access to the best middle class schnooks like us could dream of. The place was just great – spacious, well-furnished and in possession on predictably underused Jacuzzi tub, yet another victim of effervescent consumerism.
With morning arriving way too soon we needed a strong cup of java to trick our bodies into semblance of requisite daily energy, the quality we desperately needed considering the weighty nature of the impending occasion – meeting our new son.
“Is there Starbucks nearby?”
“Sure, just a couple of minutes from here there is a town of Celebration. There is a shopping area with Starbucks and bunch of other stores” our front desks hosts were more than helpful.
This innocuous comment sent us into a whole new world of unexpected, as we swerved into Celebration Avenue neatly trimmed by perfectly manicured parks, white picket fences and immaculate small ponds with all sorts of exotic trees and soft grass so loved by all nightly creatures, alligators included. Suddenly, as if caught in an unforeseen summer thunderstorm we got showered from head to toe in magic soaking of a sensation that whisked us into an entirely different world of American utopia. The surrounding greenery yielded to first signs with of picture-perfect houses, spotless sidewalks and overwhelming harmony seeping from everywhere it seemed. No house had its equal in design, comfort and street appeal. This was not an ordinary cookie-cutter motive of middle class suburbs. This was a step above and light years away from people in the toll booths.
“Ouch!” some foreign and very acrid substance stung my eye to the point of suffering. I looked up and saw a soapy film covering the endless sky above – a bubble. It was shimmering and spitting with drips of magic flakes that reminded, from time to time, of the lucky insiders in their ever-lasting happiness. Wearing glasses was a perfect defence and we needed somebody and quick who could provide us with some details of this larger than imagination version of Truman Show.
Luckily, after driving by an incredible array of townhouses, apartments, offices and shops we parked right next to an electric car plugged into a special and perfectly positioned re-charging outlet. Here we encountered an un-glassed local grandma in all her soft and yet sturdy charms of well-established and very happy retirement.
“Hello, are you from here?” we had to act fast as grandma proved to be super agile in mounting her electric mobile with all accoutrements of responsible environmental practices and well-funded pension.
“Yes, is this your first time here?” her perfect English in Queen’s dialect could only heighten our curiosity.
“This place is amazing. All seems to be just so perfect and unreal. Do all locals get these electric cars for free?”
“If eleven thousand is not money then it is” she proudly caressed the wheel in a proud arch of happy possession.
We persisted in fishing out a myriad of cute details. It turned out that the town of Celebration was developed by Disney in their quest to create a perfect community with little if any dependence on interactions with the outside world rife with its problems of crime, poverty and wars. Who needs it when you can hide behind a soapy film for a price that could not fetch more than a two-bedroom condo in the middle of the crazy Manhattan with its disregard for rank, order or spotless sidewalks?
The town was first open for business some ten years ago and now boasts about ten thousand perfectly happy residents abiding in spaces ranging from two-bedroom apartments to ten-thousand square feet mansions in all fashions of rococo and adobe. Our grandma happened to be an insider who lived through the preceding years of price run-ups that have transformed Celebration into a town of wealthy and very wealthy.
“You see, the state of Florida, especially in these parts used to be a relatively cheap retirement spot - sort of Wal-Mart of sunset years, which later morphed into a Target version of the American dream after 55. Now, it is either Neumann Marcus or a shack next to a swamp” she concluded poignantly.
“Here we live in the shade of a great bubble with property taxes never far away to remind you of the reality when it comes to due dates. Who can really afford any of it? Just around the corner we have some places going for over $3M and all that for gator infested waterfront”
“Gator?” my ears perked for a savage novelty.
“Sure, there are plenty of them right in the middle of town where there is a lake. They are protected by law and allowed to stay in the lake till they get to about four feet. Then they transfer them somewhere else. By the way are you are fond of fishing?” she rang in her perfect Kent-onese.
“Not really”
“That’s a shame as our main lake is stocked with anything imaginable year around”
“Wow!” we could not contain the enchantment.
“By the way, if get bored just drive down the road there is one of those scary Christmas houses in full bloom. Apparently, the guy is using eighteen generators to keep it going - might be worth a look at night time. One thing though, be prepared to wait for parking as it gets busy”.
“And come back at night, we have snowfall four times every evening at the main street” she added.
“Snow! I have to see that”
“On Thanksgiving they had leaves falling now it is snow – a true mark of decadence” our local guide was happy to share just about any improbable wrinkle of local living.
“Who is paying for this all?”
“Property taxes are atrocious here” in all enthusiasm I almost forgot the beautiful American dream of low taxes, income taxes that is. Keep those low and charge for everything else through the nose – a great civic invention.
By now I was loaded for a bear with information. Proceeding to the main street that had been given to a farmers’ market for a nice Sunday afternoon could not have been any more idyllic. Freshly squeezed orange juices, organic pastas and French baked goodies were just irresistible. The latter was fully stocked with Parisian prices and accents to boot. Who cares though as for a mere four bucks you can get a delicious mouth-watering dainty with a chance to chat up a real Parisian? In fact, the place was just a honeycomb for anybody even remotely related to Luis the XIV as hardly any English was spoken around the stand and our Pan-Canadian French was taken at its face value with warts and all. I have to admit that speaking French with a Canadian flag on is one of the most exuberant patriotic excesses I could ever think of. We felt proud, full and delighted with contemplation of general lack of reality that swirled around our very eyes. Immaculate buildings, flawless people and the tranquil lake from a postcard – in short all my senses were delighted with this Disney-ing experience. Perfect!
Meeting Nicholas
Upon leaving the Truman Show I remembered a drastic absence of an air-fan, an absolutely necessary accoutrement of happy leaving. With time Zeitnot upon us, we moved into a direction of much despised purveyor of things less costly – Wal-mart. There amidst shiny fluorescent floors, clueless help and lacking in any diet advice, my senses managed to recover to a pre-Celebration state; perhaps a bit too soon as I hoped to make my adoption cheque writing experience as surreal as possible – how wishful!
Our first encounter with our new son, dear Nicholas, was as uplifting and special as it was prosaic as he was simply carried to us in a tight bundle across a small reception room in the humble offices of Adoption of Shepherd Care. A truly life changing experience but how do you make this really dramatic and unforgettable scene worthy of a minor Hollywood script? Hard to say, as we should have probably rehearsed running through the thickets of approving crowds, or negotiate a tight and explosive labyrinth of a last minute chase with explosions and firearms, or maybe we should have descended on helicopter into an inferno of rescue. None of that, you just walk in and seconds later you cling to your future tight in your hands. The future is hardly awake and barely responsive, and, most amazingly, very, very light. I hold my knuckle-white grip around the blankets as strenuously as I can lest weightless Nicholas escapes in his weightless glory. And yet despite all this fragility and brittleness beats a strong young heart with irrepressible sucking instincts and legs thinner that those of my cat. One could not help but fall in love, as we could barely manage to follow all possible handling instructions with Tracy writing a first draft of operations manual in her well-packed, lucid and rarely read script.
Nicholas’ handlers seemed just as delighted to see him go as we wanted to have him – better they could not be with warmer hearts, more tireless efforts and the warmest touches. We were all touched and near tears, departing with Nicholas and his loot. After all this was Disney and they do not like letting you go with hand empty. We were loaded up to the neck with toys, formula, blankets and other harbingers of sleepless nights.
Nicholas managed to plan the rest of our trip with nearly meticulous precision of three hour increments that mandated the tasks of mixing, holding, burping and cleaning. I tried to add some writing and voila, my hands and head were as sore as if beaten to pulp in one of those dramatic chases in yet another happy ending PG-rated feature. We resisted the imposed changes with our best. After all Nicholas was not likely to ask for car keys for few years yet and we were gearing up to explore more of local delights more to our liking. The first port of call was a hundred mile track somewhere south to partake in a lunch in the warm and joyous Cave company. To get there, we had to navigate to the Florida Turnpike through some more lived-in neighbourhoods in need of refurbishment. That’s where the regular folk of Disney spend their minimum wage and food stamps, as pavements betrayed all sorts of any imaginable cracks and many a window lacked some basic draping or even glass if it happened to have been burned out in some unfortunate insurance fire.
Luckily we made to the Turnpike although it was hard to imagine how anyone in this neck of the woods could afford the tolls. Unsuspecting, we jumped on the lonely road that stretched miles and miles on end without a single exit zooming past countless swamps, ugly rickety trees and occasional orange groves. Anything beyond was simply unobservable as the landscape was FLAT, FLAT, FLAT!
How I Got Full of Crock
It was a definite relief to reach our rendezvous point after a tasteless ride through the plains of Central Florida. Accidentally, I swear, we swerved into a wrong lane when clearing our exit with, what else, a toll booth. This one was for well-organized folks with pre-paid toll cards. Luckily, I did not have one as a desperate toll attendant waved me in gratis – I was more than curious to find out how much hard cold US cash I saved. Well, my return trip would clear all that up, but for now we were in the warm and chatty company of our friends who promptly took us to some local restaurant with an alligator in its name.
“Do you serve crocks here?” I was unrepentant in my persistence at calling local attractions by their cousin’s name. After all, what do you expect when you dealing with anyone coming from the depth of the Ukrainian tundra? How am I to know the difference?
“Sure, deep fried or broiled”
“Shrimp cocktail, boiled shrimp, barbequed shrimp, shrimp sandwich” Bubba Gump just kept ringing in his deathly grip on all things bottom feeding.
“We will try your special appetizer” I managed to rein in my desperate urge at impersonating the Spielberg’s creation. “By the way, do not they protect them here?”
“These are farmed” the waitress replied.
I guess when it comes to crocks farmed better than wild. Maybe we should convert all our farmed salmon industry into crock farms? At the very least, they will fit perfectly into all that splendid greenery of the Pacific Northwest and would not screw up with our pride – wild salmon.
Well, the rest tasted just like, you guessed it, chicken. It was rubbery with a chewy twist and your choice of spicy sauces. I reckon that from the crock’s perspective if you end up on a plate you might as well have some fun turning racy dance moves in a bunch of hot salsa.
Blasted Immigration
Three hours later, an early tropical sunset beaconed a dark lonely road back to Disney with an eight dollar toll as it turned out. We desperately needed some rest with tomorrow as it was the last day before our departure and we had not yet received an official paper from Immigration giving us a go-ahead to bring Nicholas home, to Canada. An important nuance as our tickets listed Vancouver as final destination.
The next morning we got back to work the phones with particular vengeance, trying to reverse our good work of waking up too many dragon heads at the Immigration. These, like little beavers, got to work in the most disjointed fashion best afforded by privately developed computer systems and enthusiastic management consultants. It was like trying to find a high spot on a water bed, when every time when just about to reach a piece of high soil and voila, you are back in the dumps. I was pretty close to blowing it, tired of climbing the impossible heights. The only restraining force was the need for gentle and careful handling that all government institutions demand.
Fortunately, God smiled on our phone hacking efforts that day and the issue managed to find its apogee in successful resolution. Besides, we got a bonus chance to chat up with the first and the most helpful victim of my phone pranks – Officer EM. His unknown name expressed in short and almost meaningless initials will be forever enshrined in our memorable efforts to scale the perfectly impregnable fortress of 800-numbers, fax hints and clandestine Mississauga operations.
Looking for Mickey
Finally, we were free to flee the humidity, traffic and heat towards refreshing winds of the Pacific Northwest or Southwest if you happen to have a certain patriotic proclivities. However, it felt sensible to dip a little toe in Disney, so tempting was the proximity announced by countless billboards and traffic signs that led to the Mickey’s layer. It was not as easy as first thought, since he managed to scatter signs of his presence with all skills of 007 throughout his humongous estate beset with groves, lawns, fences and misleading signs galore. It took at least a couple of false turns before we managed to locate Downtown Disney that was replete with just about anything to tickle our senses. Stores, restaurants, theatres and our best export of Circe du Soleil were well-enhanced by free and ample parking on the edge of the waterfront, artificial no doubt. The picture was as bright as it was perfect with only one personage refusing to advertise its presence in the least of forms – Mickey himself. Just imagine just about anything saleable and not a single public statute of the inspiration himself – they must have deemed commercial space too valuable to yield to the gratuitous demands of the noisome octogenarian. We were slightly distraught and needed a consolation prize that arrived with an amazingly tranquil lakefront, just feet away from swirling crowds enveloped in the clasps of unabashed consumerism. Just imagine having a water front with not a single store facing the right way, any sensible European would be appalled at such callousness to nature, no matter how artificial it might be! The corollary perk was of course a plenty of empty first rate benches gazing at the serene ripple-less lake navigated by soothing pleasure crafts and distant fireworks – a perfect cigarillo moment!
This Is Not a Dream
My dreams were rudely interrupted by persistent wails for feeding. Yes, this was not a vacation and my parental instincts had to wake up pronto with an impending trip to all places loathsome and yet expedient - Wal-Mart. In addition, I had to pull a bit of extra business there as our recent visit to the establishment had produced a bag that was left at the paws of the monster – I was determined to recover my rightfully purchased groceries totalling a whopping four bucks. At first, the task did not look all that simple as I had to endure a lengthy line-up in the most chaotic part of the store – Customer Service. The sheer first hand view of all that torn, mutilated and scratched packaging adorning mounds of products, hardly touched and already defunct, made me queasy. They really should be paying a hazard premium for working here! Eventually, my turn at the counter came to be. The remainder of the traumatic encounter proceeded in an unexpected fashion as my receipt was quickly tested versus a thick ledger replete with bad and ineligible handwriting.
“For once!” exclaimed a clerk with jubilant smile. Miraculously, my bottle of milk was located in the middle of this medieval madness - a truly remarkable event considering all the latest computer technology and most sophisticated logistics that made Wal-Mart the envy of competitors and detractors alike.
Happy to have escaped with my improbable booty we needed to complete our nearly perfect trip by paying a visit to the paragon of perfection itself – Celebration once again. This time the whole world showed up to witness a pre-scheduled snowfall. No nasty surprises and limited to just one street it could not have been any more joyous for children and more convenient for adults. Soap-flakes replaced everything cold and nasty with myriads of children dancing to Christmas music and under the delightful gazes of their parents. We could not escape the momentary enchantment and rushed into the middle of the soapy stage with suds reaching to our ankles and shrieks of joy that seemed a bit too early for Nicholas who burrowed his face deep in the blankets – give it few more years, I guess.
On the way back we could not resist checking-out a monster light display on the main street. At first, the sight did not promise anything but a display in turmoil with lights dancing indiscriminately all over the garish façade, roof, windows and anything resembling a tree or a bush in the front yard. Suddenly, the unfathomable display made all the sense in the world with us tuning to the advertised FM frequency. The music, piped from the house into the neighbourhood, gave the erratic disharmony a well-fitted cadence with lights echoing just about any imaginable Christmas tune in complete and mesmerizing synchrony. One, two, three songs into the concert we found it nearly irresistible and hard to leave our prime parking position right in front of the magic house but life was calling. One turn and rapidly fading FM tunes brought us back to existence with diapers, formula and an impeding transcontinental plane ride.
“Welcome to Canada, ah a new baby!” a friendly Canadian immigration officer was there to greet us after an uneventful series of flights that failed to as mush as wake up the baby and get us stuck in a thick nasty snow storm in Denver as our booking luck sent us to San Fran instead.
Welcome Home Nicholas!
P.S. want to call immigration? I just might have the number.
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