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I recently returned from a trip to Disney World with my 12-year-old son.
Before anyone asks: yes, I had to refinance my home.
Let me explain why we were there in the first place. Jared is in sixth grade at an online school called Prisma. A few times per year, they host in-person gatherings called “Endeavors,” which are designed for socialization, team-building and personal growth.
So on Sunday, Feb. 1, we flew into Orlando. Florida welcomed us with the warmth of a New York February: 27 degrees. From there, we drove about 115 miles north to Orange Springs, where my son experienced what can only be described as “winter camp" for much of the week.
After dropping him off, I drove another 250 miles south to Fort Myers to stay with my parents, who are snowbirds from Somers. It was mostly a working trip for me. Thank God for technology. I can now stare at a screen for 20-plus hours anywhere in the world. I did manage to get a nice round of golf in with my dad and cousin when the mercury reached the high 60s.
On Friday, I picked Jared up and we headed back to Orlando for the father-son portion of the trip. First stop: nine holes at Disney’s Lake Buena Vista Golf Course. We teed off at 4 p.m. The price was right.
Now, in a stroke of either genius or idiocy, I forgot to stop at Target beforehand to buy golf balls. As a golf hacker, most of my shots wind up in water or woods. Inventory matters. The pro shop generously gave us a sleeve of balls for renting clubs. I asked the attendant if the supply he gave us was sufficient for the course. He must have assumed I was halfway competent.
On the first hole, there was water immediately left of the fairway. I was toast. With almost no balls to my name (insert your own double entendre here), I began discreetly scavenging the woods for abandoned strays, all while praying an alligator wasn't perfectly camouflaged in the brush. I found enough to survive the round. Disney magic.
Then came the hotel decision, which I made a few weeks earlier. The question I faced at the time was, "Do I sell a kidney and stay at a Disney resort? Or do I opt for something more budget conscious, like the Holiday Inn & Suites Orlando SW?" At $76.33 per night (plus taxes and fees), it seemed like a steal.
Now in fairness, the front desk was delightful. They even handed us a little gift bag — water bottle, trail mix, snacks — like we were attending a wedding. The room was fine. But the hallways smelled like cannabis, and I’m not sure the carpets had been vacuumed since 1997. My son quietly asked if we were “having a bad year.” After the hotel and the golf-ball scavenging, I understood his concern.
Now, Jared is not a ride person. So Universal was out. SeaWorld, I learned, has somehow become a roller coaster mecca. (Google it. I thought it was just Shamu in a pool.) I bought multi-park Disney passes because nothing says “financial discipline” like committing to multiple parks at once.
Our first stop was Hollywood Studios. We went on a Star Wars ride that was mostly visual and mildly nauseating. Jared’s main goal, however, was to build his own lightsaber. We found the lightsaber workshop after wandering for 20 minutes. A cast member (that's what they call Disney employees) informed us that the cost would be $293, including tax.
Two hundred and ninety-three dollars.
For a plastic sword with mood lighting.
I braced myself for an emotional negotiation. Instead, my 12-year-old calmly said, “That’s insane.” Proud parenting moment.
This is where I struggle with Disney. Disney proudly signals equity and inclusion — yet the experience itself is increasingly out of reach for the average American family. There’s something tone-deaf about selling a $293 toy to children while presenting yourself as a champion of the common family.
And don’t get me started on the ticketing website. I initially thought I had a clear idea of pricing. What I didn’t understand was that there is a “base” ticket price, and then there is the price of the specific day you go — which fluctuates depending on demand, season and possibly lunar cycles. Lucky for us, early February isn't peak season yet. I briefly considered writing the IRS to see if “immersive journalism” is deductible.
At Epcot, we started with Spaceship Earth, the iconic globe. Beyond the prices, this is my one serious critique. It should be astounding. It has the budget, the captive audience and the ambition. I've never been to the "Sphere" in Las Vegas. I’ve heard it described as a massive glowing orb that turns the entire building into a screen. Spaceship Earth at Epcot should be like that. Instead, it feels like a very sincere vision of the future from 1984. Judi Dench’s voiceover was thoughtful, but hard to hear and oddly flat. Likewise, the Imagination attraction felt similarly dated. I remember loving it in the 1980s. I don't think they've changed it at all.
But the food at Epcot? Excellent.
The allergy protocols? Outstanding. Jared has a severe dairy allergy. Even baked goods made with milk are off-limits. Disney took it seriously. Cast members were trained. They had allergy books. They walked us through options. Pretzels were safe. The legendary turkey drumsticks — which appear to come from genetically enhanced Thanksgiving birds the size of Labradors — were cooked perfectly and dairy-free. That matters.
The a cappella group in the America pavilion was fantastic. And the 9 p.m. fireworks at Magic Kingdom? Truly spectacular. The castle becomes a canvas of projections and music. The fireworks rival any Fourth of July show I’ve seen. The parade beforehand was equally impressive. For a few minutes, even a cynical newspaper publisher can suspend disbelief.
And I have to say this about the cast members: every single one we encountered was patient, attentive and kind, and this included security at the gate and people checking for tickets. That says something about the culture at Disney.
At Magic Kingdom, I realized I desperately needed a belt. (I have a uniquely uncooperative waistline). I asked a cast member if they sold belts. She disappeared into a back room and returned with two options. I prepared to finance them. She smiled and said, “It’s on Mickey.”
The next morning, the parking attendant did the same thing. “Parking’s on Mickey today.” He must have seen the Holiday Inn parking pass on my dashboard.
Animal Kingdom? We rushed through it and saw very few animals, which felt ironic. There were, however, plentiful opportunities to purchase $8 beverages and $15 snacks every 12 feet. The Lion King show, though, was Broadway quality.
Disney Springs was impressive — a sprawling waterfront district of restaurants, shops and live entertainment. Think upscale mall meets theme park. Yes, my son is only 12, but he's a foodie who actually cooks most of our family meals (check out his YouTube channel, @CookingwithJare). This is also a nice way of saying he's a little picky, but not in the way most parents might wish. He seems to have an aversion to anything inexpensive. On the first night, we ate at Morimoto Asia, which is listed in the Michelin Guide.
On Super Bowl Sunday, we had reservations at House of Blues, so Jared, who is NFL-obsessed, could watch the game on their “giant screen.” The giant screen was outside. In the cold. Our reservation was inside.
Florida, however, gets one thing right: common sense. They let us sit at the bar in front of a television, even though Jared was clearly not ordering a cocktail. (New York establishments tend to interpret the law narrowly). We watched the first half at the bar and the second half back at the Holiday Inn, cannabis aroma and all.
All in all, it was memorable. Would I go every year? Only if Mickey co-signs the loan.
Disney is both impressive and exasperating. It is magical and maddening. And yet, we Americans consider it a rite of passage. Maybe that's ridiculous. I would urge all readers who haven't been to not feel pressured to go. Our 16-year-old daughter hasn't gone yet, and at this point, she may go for the first time when accompanying her own children many years from now (grandpa would love to tag along!).
But I will say this: I got time with my son. We laughed. We navigated. We golfed. We walked miles. We ate turkey legs the size of medieval weaponry. We watched fireworks that made us both go quiet for a few minutes.
And that part is what I’ll remember.
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