Lake Bryan near our condominium in Orlando
What I remember most about family vacations are a few simple things: the endless drives down long stretches of highway, going swimming at midnight, shopping at outlet malls, and eating so much food that my stomach felt like exploding. Then of course there are the more complicated things: the endless drives down long stretches of highway, the arguments over whether we stop at a gas station or a rest area, listening to Whitney Houston songs playing on the radio, and finally, getting carsick in the backseat.
I’ll never forget the summer of 1991 when we packed into our maroon Chrysler New Yorker complete with velour seats. That was a hellish summer and the heat from the highway conjured up mirage pools in the distance. My brother and I were like sardines packed into the back seat. I was snoozing with my head against the window, when suddenly, I was awoken by the gagging noises of a carsick brother, followed by the ooze of warm vomit drenching down my leg and into my sock. The chunky sight was disgusting and the smell was repulsive causing my eyes to water. I was shocked and imagined my leg melting in this vile brew.
Ironically, he managed to get most of it into this plastic bag. That was little comfort as I suffered from the collateral splash. We stopped at the side of the road for damage control only to discover that the improvised barf bag had a brand new radar detector in it. Worse yet, it was on loan from our oldest brother. We tried wiping it off with wet napkins, and plugged it in to see if it worked, but it made this dying chirpy noise that faded slowly into oblivion. Resuscitating it was futile. It was even more futile explaining to our oldest brother that his new radar detector (just purchased a few weeks beforehand) was a casualty of our road trip.
Ahhh! These memories are still fresh, and always remind me of going to that one location that holds a fond place in my heart: Orlando, Florida. Forget about the fact that Orlando is over-traveled, overextended, and overtly fabricated. Orlando will forever be synonymous with everybody’s childhood friend, Mickey Mouse. It has become a yearly tradition for my family, and Disney World has become our own personal pilgrimage to Mecca. Somehow, each year I gladly part ways with the $55 gate fee and subject myself to burning hot sunlight, tortuously long lines, and the festering scent of B.O. I do it because there’s something so compelling about that darn little mouse. Somehow, he's broken into my family circle, becoming like a brother, a son almost.
This year, we were fortunate to have my cousin Louie and his family join us in our Disney pilgrimage. Their daughter is the same age as Isabel, and together both left puddles of drool as they awed at everything Disney. Izzy liked the jerky turns of Peter Pan, and was mesmerized by the oversized & underpaid Mickey Mouse suits signing autographs. Leighanne seemed to enjoy the colorful glowing lights that illuminated the castle and was captivated by the fireworks at night’s end. Meanwhile, her sister Rhianna was collecting stuffed toys as if the world was in short supply. As for Louie and I, we just sat back and watched. Over a few beers, and tired feet, we’d talk late into the night about how great it was to have a family. We felt that something incredible was occurring, something bigger than we could have imagined.
We had more than just another mundane vacation in the most commercialized tourist attraction in the world. We were carrying on a family tradition with the next generation. Sure, today our kids are a bit too young to remember, but soon they’ll ooh & ahh like I once did at this place. I’ll still fork over more money to see that little mouse. All for the sake of my kids having their own memories. Perhaps they'll recall the long car rides singing along to cheesy top 40 songs by some brand new diva on the radio. And sure enough, I expect them to get carsick too. This time though, I’ll have a barf bag waiting for them.
- Marvin A.
