Welcome Home To The Wilderness Lodge

I've got a Disney vacation jones that is vibrating in overdrive right now. I want to stay in my hotel. I want to hear the particular noise that a heavy metal door makes when it slides closed, followed by that brief click of the electronic lock resetting itself. I want to hear the clang of the metal safety hinge as it claps against the back of the door, pointing to the posted fire-exit map. I want to look at that map and see the little lines boxing me in. I want to count the number of numbered boxes between my assigned temporary home and the ice machine. I want to see Jiminy Cricket reassure me that even though I'm not a wooden boy, it's still a good idea to leave the building during a fire.

I want to hear the hum of the industrial air conditioner, followed by the blast of cold air that smells like its been kept cold inside a clean steel drum. I want to make a dent in the perfectly-taut bedspread with my heavy suitcase, and to challenge the anonymously perfect sterility of the room with bits of my everyday home. Those sweats I wear around the house, the t-shirt I slept in yesterday in my own bed. I want to clutter the nightstand with the juicy chunks of paperback books that I've been hoarding for such a getaway. I want to pile them up in a tempting stack like syrupy hotcakes, or cluster them like ripe grapes.

I want to turn on the TV, flip to the in-room channel and watch the top 10 resort attractions. Chipper music-hall girls sliding down waterslides and dancing with Mickey Mouse in the Not A Zoo. I want to stand on the balcony and look over the freeform pool and hear the boat whistle as it pulls into the dock. In my mind I can imagine that I'll be on that boat several times as I set out to explore the rest of the World.