Indian Summer

Recently I made one of my rare visits to Chicago to consort with family, visit my elderly horse, and dine with friends. Since it was October, I was looking forward to a dose of real fall weather. I could just imagine the crisp breeze rustling the red, orange and yellow leaves as the smell of bonfires tickled my nose. I'd feel the chill that heralds the coming winter and revel in the fact that I could enjoy a dose of autumn and then flee back to Florida before the cold and snow take over.

As I headed for the airport, I was hit by a dose of true Floridian weather: Heat, humidity, and thunderstorms. The bleak sky, laden with evil-looking clouds that spat out sheets of rain and crackling lightning bolts at regular intervals, warned me that my flight was almost certainly delayed. Ahhhh...it would feel good to get to Chicago and get some relief from the heavy air and oppresive heat. I love palm trees, but I was ready to see leaves in some color other than green. Of course, we do get the fall colors here, but those are made of paper and fall from the lamp posts in downtown Celebration!

Sure enough, my flight was listed as delayed. I made my way through security and took the tram to the Southwest gates. Once upon a time, the idea of braving the Southwest cattle call boarding process was anathema to me, but after ATA went bankrupt I quickly became a convert.

For those who have never experienced it, basically Southwest has no assigned seats. You get a boarding pass lettered A, B, or C, depending on your check-in time, and you board in order of your assigned letter. Generally, die-hards will start lining up in their lettered chute long before boarding time in order to maximize their seat selection options.

Previously, those who lined up early still found themselves at the mercy of that dreaded hoarde known as the Family Pre-Boarders. Southwest allowed families with children age 4 and under to board ahead of the As to help ensure that they'd get seats together. In theory, only one or two adults were supposed to board with the child. In practice, one tiny infant would be acompanied by an entourage to rival the Queen's. There'd be Heather and her two mommies, three daddies, four sets of grandparents, second cousin twice removed Lurch and his three polygamous brides, a wicked stepmother, trio of wicked stepsisters, and the fairy godmother. Multiply this gang by multiple kids, especially on Orlando flights, and sometimes literally half the plane would be pre-boarding.

Due due this rampant abuse, Southwest just implemented a wonderful new policy. Now, the family pre-boarders board between the A and B groups. If they want the primo choice of seats, they can log on 24 hours in advance and get an A pass like everyone else. If they're too darned lazy, they can get their butts to the back of the plane (since people who board early tend to sit close to the front).

This flight would be my first experience with the new policy, and I was quite anxious to see how it played out. Families have been lambasting the Southwest online; obviously, they don't realize that many other airlines have done away with family pre-boards entirely. Now they have to sit in the back...so what? Every part of the plane will get to its destination at the same time (hopefully), and since most families have checked luggage it's not like there is any benefit to rushing off the plane like a pack of rabid greyhounds. Actually, it's more like a pack of limping, three-legged greyhounds, since families tend to be the slowest on and off due to having to manage kids, luggage, and a variety of kid amusement implements.

In contrast, the most anal-retentitve As tend to be business people or commuters who don't check luggage, so it's to their advantage to be able to get off more quickly. Once they're deplaned, they can be on their way.

I don't check luggage when I visit Chicago, but I don't generally bother with the front seats because I prefer being in or near an exit row, which is row 11. Sometimes I'll plop down in an aisle seat towards the front, but the roomy exit is my preference. It's a coveted plum, so you have to be close to the front of the line to pluck it; thus, once I arrive at the gate, I always camp out in the A line immediately. Even before the change, I didn't have to worry about a pre-boarder glomming the exit because they're not allowed to sit there.

I was quite anxious to see how the new policy worked out, especially after reading so many complaints online (all written by people who hadn't even experienced the change firsthand yet). Would it speed up the turn-around process? Would children be wandering the plane, dazed and confused, as a result of being separated from their parents and families? Would anarchy reign in the flying metal germ tube? I could just imagine Mrs. Lovejoy running amok down the aisle screaming, "Won't somebody think of the children?!"

It would be a while till I found out, since the delays were so severe that the previous plane at our gate hadn't even left yet. Chicago As were hawking around the end of the boarding line, ready to start their own queue as soon as the current crop left. It was all too confusing for me, so I stood off to the side and waited until the other plane left. That put me 6th or 7th in the Chicago A line. I killed the time immersed in a novel and chatting with fellow "A campers."

Our plane arrived over half an hour late, and the wicked weather still hadn't let up. We trooped down the jetway, and I couldn't help but feel a bit smug to bypass the conga of extended families casting glares at those of us who had made the effort to get our boarding passes early rather than relying on our powers of reproduction to get us on board quickly.

The exit row was open, so I parked myself in the window seat. Shortly thereafter, a man took the aisle seat and strategically placed his briefcase onto the middle one to ward off others who might sit there. A bit cruel, but if it worked I would benefit from the extra space too so I couldn't condemn him too severely. Sure enough, no one else took the seat.

When the families boarded, there were plenty of seats together, albeit towards the middle and back of the aircraft. One parent lambasted the flight attendant, but the rest seemed to accept that their days of entitlement were over.

When we were all settled in, the captain got on the PA system with the good news and the bad news. Good: We were getting ready to taxi to the tarmac. Bad: We were #17 to take off, which meant we'd be little there for 90 minutes. I have a rather odd fear of flying, which is not focused on crashing but rather on being trapped in a fast-moving flying cigar tube without being able to escape. It's a form a claustrophobia that I developed after being stuck on a plane for hours, including endless circling because the weather precluded landing, having to make a fuel stop, and having an aborted landing before finally being able to roll down the tarmac and get the heck off the plane. I had a sinus infection, which made the assorted take-offs and landings a special misery. Ever since then, the idea of being stuck on a plane makes me crazy, even if it's just on the tarmac.

Fortunately, not too long after we rolled into place in the endless conga line, the captain broke some excellent news: We had been moved up to number six for departure. I have no idea why, but it sounded a heck of a lot better than wasting an hour and a half idling on the ground.

Sure enough, we were soon speeding down the runway and soaring about the palm trees, on our way to the good old midwest. We were still pretty late, but that's one of the joys of flying into or out of MCO with its seemingly ever-present storms. Hubby was waiting for me at Midway, as was a dose of heat! Fall? What the heck is fall? Instead, Chicago was in the grip of Indian summer. Obviously I didn't need the jacket I'd packed, and I had grievously erred in packing long-sleeved sweaters.

On the way home, we stopped at Pepe's Tacos for dinner. Whenever I return to my old stoping grounds, I go on a culinary tour of all my old favorites that I can't get in Florida. Ah, the joy of real, authentic, genuine Mexican food! My tastebuds were dancing with happiness as I tucked into my steak tacos, which were just as good as I remembered.

On Saturday, we were going to Bengston's Pumpkin Farm with my extended family. It's a tradition that has spanned for years and years, back since the time when Bengston's was actually a real pumpkin farm. In those early years, you took a tractor ride out to the pumpkin patch, where the big orange orbs were still attached to the ground by their stems. Now, the ground grows new houses instead of pumpkins; Bengston's has shrunk to a mere shadow of itself, and pumpkins are imported and scattered around a much smaller area.

There are lots of other attractions, too, from a petting zoo and pony rides to pig racing, a haunted barn, a fake cow to milk, and a corn maze. And for my brother, no trip would be complete without fresh corn on the cob and hot apple cider.

Problem is, this year “hot” was not exactly how anyone wanted their beverage to be. Instead, we all ordered our cider iced to ward off temperatures that were close to 90 degrees. It was as though I had never left Florida, save for a bit less humidity.

Still, we had all sorts of corny Halloween fun. Bengston's has basically morphed into an attraction that separates visitors from their money almost as efficiently as Disney World. But hey, it's fun to buy pumpkins and funnel cakes and to have a portrait taken to compare with previous years and see how much taller or grayer everyone has become.

On the way home, we stopped at JR's Hot Dogs for a large cup of Orange Bang. My husband claims it tastes like rancid Tang, but to me it's more like Tang mixed with an Orange Julius. I also had a Culver's custard sundae, since the chain doesn't exist in FL (although I keep hoping it will show up someday). That was more than enough indulgence, since we were going to Lawry's that night for prime rib. Even after my scarring experience last time, when they had instituted a new restroom attendance who lounged around reading magazines and who offered amenities such as Blow Pops (nothing says “high class restaurant” like candy-coated gum), I was willing to give it another try. They have truly the best prime rib on the planet, made even better by their whipped cream horseradish sauce.

Getting there was quite a challenge. We picked up my brother and sister-in-law and headed down the Dan Ryan. Traffic wasn't bad until we hit Lake Shore Drive, where it was at an absolute standstill due to a marathon scheduled for the next day, which had led to premature street closures. Somehow hubby managed to navigate a route that got us to the restaurant within five minutes of our reservation time. The restroom attendant was still there, and they had added one to the mens' room too (not a very logical move, since hubby says the restroom is the size of a broomcloset). But thankfully the food was still up to par; as a matter of fact, the meat was even more flavorful than usual. I don't know what kind of cow had given its life for our meal that day, but the taste of its slow-roasted flesh was utterly superb.

It was still miserably hot, and the unseasonable weather continued into Sunday when I went to visit my elderly horse, Cochise. Happily, he was still alive and interested in carrots. Unhappily, he had lost a ton of weight since my last visit. That's not a good thing going into the winter, when a horse needs to be in tip-top condition. The vet had recently pronounced him healthy and suggested a “senior feed,” so hopefully that will get some results. As much as it breaks my heart, I have to remember that he's 30, which is like a centurion in human years. If he's not fated to make it through the winter, I pray that he has a fast and painless exit. But hopefully the new feed will perk him up and get him through another year.

I hit Pepe's one more time for lunch, eager to toke up on prime Mexican cuisine since I won't get any more till my next visit. But I didn't want to eat too much, as we were going out with some old friends that evening. I had never heard of the place we visited, a Western-themed eatery called Ted's Montana Grill. Turns out that “Ted” is Ted Turner, and the menu is heavy on buffalo. It's also billed as “green,” with concessions to the environment such as paper straws and menus printed on recycled paper.

It's actually a chain and there are some locations in Florida, although none near Celebration. Even though meat is the main feature of the menu, I ended up opting for a plate of side orders because so many items intrigued me and I wanted to have a mini smorgasboard. I had had good meat the night before, so I could stand to have a vegetarian day with yummy options such as creamed spinach and squash casserole.

Since this was just a brief visit to Chicago, we were slated to fly out very, very early the next morning. Even as we headed back to Midway, the summer-like weather remained. As we headed towards security, we were greeted with an intimidating sight...people, people, and more people as far as the eye could see! I hadn't seen the lines backed up that far since the holidays. Originally, I had been hoping to get to the gate early enough to snare a good spot in the A line. Now, I was just hoping to get there in time to board our plane before it winged its way to Orlando without us.

Fortunately, the massive salmon stream edged its way forward with steady progress. I suspect that all the security checkpoints weren't open when we arrived but that they had finally been opened up. We got through in plenty of time to scope out the gate and grab the very first A spots. It wasn't long before other anal retentive travelers were lining up behind us for their shot at the prime seats.

The new pre-board policy was in place at Midway, too, but it didn't matter as much on such an early flight. Most families were still running in a frenzy around their homes, trying to remember every last bit of luggage before winging their way to the House of Mouse later on in the day. Since we were the first general boarders (after the disabled), there was no doubt that we would get the exit row. We took the window and aisle seats, since hubby likes to watch the view while I like to have easy access to the restroom. If someone sits in the middle, I'll generally offer them the aisle with the caveat that they have to potentially tolerate me climbing over them. However, this flight was so deserted that the seat remained open.

It felt so good to be back home in FL, although there was no weather contrast. Usually in October, I'd be reveling in the heat after a weekend of shivering in the autumn chill. Now, the only difference was a tad more humidity and a tropical landscape. Still, I knew that Chicago's reprieve was only temporary. Whereas I can count on a sunny, mild winter, there's no way my old hometown will avoid the ice and snow. I may have missed a taste of fall, but I can never get too much warmth and sunshine...even if it's of the Indian Summer variety.

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The Trail We Blaze

One year ago this weekend, my horse Figment had only been in Florida for four months and my hopes of riding in the Lake Louisa Trail Obstacle Challenge were dashed when he suffered a bout of colic.

Since that time, we managed to ride in the spring challenge (it's held in both October and May), and now the fall version had rolled around again. As my inner alarm clock woke me at 7 a.m. this morning, I feared that once again I wouldn't be riding in the October challenge. This time it wasn't because of a problem with Figment, but rather the fickle whim of Mother Nature. I could see a thick layer of clouds clotting the pre-dawn sky, and when I brought up the radar online I saw that Clermont (where the challenge is held) was under an ugly patch of green that signified a current rainstorm.

According to the radar, the giant rain blob was moving rapidly so there was a chance that it might blow over by the beginning of the competition. My innate hatred of mornings and desire for additional sleep was at war with my desire to ride as I tried to figure out what to do. It's a 90 minute roundtrip to the barn, so I didn't want to waste all that time for a washout. But if I crawled back into bed and woke up later to find sunny skies, I knew I would deeply regret staying home.

I called the barn owner to get a real-time weather report. She said that it was raining but that she was optimistic it would blow over in time for us to ride. You check in at the trail challenge and are assigned a start time that is usually at least an hour away. If the rain continued to move rapidly, we would be high and dry when our start time rolled around.

The television weather report seemed to bear this out. It looked like the soggy morning was well on its way to morphing into something more pleasant. I hopped into Canyonero and headed out to Clermont, telling myself that the downpour currently deluging my windshield was going to stop at any moment.

It rained for 40 minutes of my 45 minute drive, but when I got to the barn it had mercifully stopped and blue sky was just barely visible in the distance. The barn owner and two other boarders were already busily preparing their horses.

I had bathed Figment the day before, but he had promptly rolled in the dirt the minute I turned him loose in the pasture. Thus, rather than having a squeaky clean horse my efforts were aimed more at damage control.

Figgie munched the last of his breakfast as I groomed him and strapped on the saddle. He peered eagerly over his stall door, knowing that something special was up. I had ridden him in the woods the day before, and he had seen some of the obstacles that were already set up. They're wrapped in caution tape so no one can cheat and ride through them early, but just passing by them alerted Figment to the fact that something was different.

The barn owner had already signed us all in and secured a 10:15 start time. We rode over a little early to give the horses a chance to check out the flurry of activity. There are 100 participants, most of whom arrive with horse trailers and many of whom camp in the state park. There are signs and banners flapping, tables with all manner of activity, and dozens and dozens of equines and their owners all milling around. It's an excellent opportunity to desensitize a horse and get it used to crowd scenes.

Figment gave the whole scenario a cautious eye, but he didn't balk. I could see his spotty little Appaloosa brain working overtime: "Hmmmmm, I seem to remember something like this before. And we passed all that weird stuff yesterday.....it has to be another one of those strange human events where they ask us to do illogical things like walk over a mattress when there is plenty of room to walk around it or go backwards between cones when going forward would get us to the end much more quickly."

Shortly before our start time I paid a quick visit to the outhouse. I didn't want a repeat of my adventure in the springtime peeing in the palmettos at the side of the trail! With nature's call answered, I swung up into the saddle and joined my group so that we could embark on the day's adventure.

The barn owner and one of the other boarders were riding in the competition with me, and the boarder's husband was tagging along although he wasn't officially entered. He is a beginning rider and his horse is only three years old, so it was more of a learning experience for them. A woman on a cute little paint had also been added to our group.

We set out right on the dot of 10:15 and headed for Obstacle #1. It was a rather easy one, meant asa confidence builder for the horses. You simply had to walk between two halfway-buried tractor tires. Figgie still gave them a suspicious stare, since he knew they didn't belong in this environment, but he sauntered through.

The rest of the obstacles offered a variety of challenges: weaving through poles without knocking tennis balls off the tops, walking across a teeter totter (with the added challenge of slickness from the earlier rain), walking over a path of logs, backing up along a prescribed path, walking across a mattress, opening/walking through/closing a rope gate and a regular gate, pushing a giant ball, riding through a water puddle, and walking up and down wooden “stairs.”

The only one that worried me was the rope gate; last year, Figment had refused to go anywhere near it, since it was orange and looked a lot like electric tape. I don't care what scientists say...I believe that horses can see color. Sure enough, this year it was a non-threatening blue and while blend, and Figment got close enough to let me unlatch it. We still didn't complete the obstacle due to my awkwardness in figuring out how to close it, but I was very pleased that he didn't think I was trying to electrocute him again this year.

The only other obstacle where we had an “incident” was the water crossing. Figment has no fear of water. We've crossed chest deep areas without any trouble, so the little ankle-deep puddle should have posed no problem. The barn owner went across first, and suddenly Figment decided that he needed to bolt across and follow her. The rest of the group was with us, but he still got it into his head that he would be abandoned if he didn't cross NOW.

I tried to hold him in, but he was dancing and prancing like a madman. Finally I resorted to my “emergency technique.” As a failsafe, I taught him to stop when I do a half-dismount. When he's spooking, backing, prancing, or doing something where he's lost all horsey logic and attention, that will usually settle him down. When he feels my leg swing over his back and I freeze in that position, he knows that it means to stop whatever he is doing. It's sort of like pressing control-alt-delete on a computer. It causes him to “reset.”

I think the judge thought I was trying to bail, as he asked if everything was okay. I reassured him that it was fine and that Figgie would settle down shortly. Sure enough, he got his attention off the other horse and back onto me and realized that he had to wait his turn. I swung back up, ready to tackle the water, but the judge was still skeptical. He asked a couple more times if we were okay...maybe he's never seen a horsey reboot before. Figgie went through the water, but he did it in a very sloppy manner so goodness only knows how many points we lost in that fiasco.
Oh well, at least we completed every obstacle but the gate, and he was an angel for most of them. He even nailed the backing-up...he knows how to do it but can get piggy when I try to line him up on a specific path between objects.

He did have another meltdown just past the teeter totter. I'm not sure what caused it; I think it was a Gator cart, but he's seen that cart many, many times before when we've been out trail riding. I guess he was just looking for an excuse to act silly and to burn off a burst of energy.

When we approached the last obstacle (a wooden platform with “stairs” to climb up and down), I swear he knew it was the last one because he couldn't wait to do it. He poised himself at the cones that mark the starting line, and all I had to do was give him his head. Up, over, and down, and we were done.

I bought a hot dog for lunch and waited a while for the pictures to be delivered from the course. They snap photos at the pole bending and log obstacles, and I was anxious to buy them. As you can see below, they turned out quite nice:









Seminole Feed had a scale at the event, so I weighed Figgie. He stepped willingly onto the platform, probably thinking is was just another trail obstacle, although he was a little sloppy and stood with most of hoof protruding over the edge. He was almost 1100 pounds, although some of that is accounted for by his saddle. But it was good to see that he was up from 900-something when I'd had him weighed in the spring. He lost a lot of weight last winter, so it was good to see that he had gained it back.

When we got back to the barn, I lavished Figment with treats for being such a good boy. It had been a long day for him and many hours under saddle.

I'm very fortunate to be able to board Figgie right across the street from a state park with almost 20 miles of equestrian trails. The bi-annual trail challenge is a big bonus on top of that, and I'm already looking forward to the next one in the spring.

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Saganaki and Pyromania

With my birthday rapidly approaching and a full weekend ahead, hubby suggested that we celebrate a couple of days early. Saturday is the Lake Louisa Trail Obstacle Challenge, so I'll be busy convincing my equine, Figment, that the poles and tires and teeter totters and plastic chairs that have suddenly sprung up in the woods are harmless to horses. Sunday there is a picnic event here in Celebration, so I'll be busy at the East Village Pool partying with friends and neighbors. Thus, it looked like Friday night was our best option for a nice birthday meal.

Picking the day was the easy part; when you live next door to Disney World and just a short drive down I-4 from Sandlake Road and International Drive, picking a restaurant plunges a person into the midst of a dizzying array of options.

I ruled out the usual Disney dining options because I am in a rut at our usual WDW restaurant choices. For example, if we went to Artist Point, I knew I would order the chef's cheese selection, a vat of the Mushroom Soup of the God, and either the venison spring roles or a salad, with sorbet and shortbread for dessert. Since this was a celebratory meal, I thought it would be fun to try someplace entirely new.

My mind wandered up International Drive and down Sand Lake Road, considering the plethora of eateries from which I could choose. Suddenly it hit me: Taverna Opa! I had read about it on Celebration's intranet, and it sounded like a fun place both in terms of food and ambiance. We had been meaning to try it anyway, so why not today?

I called to get a reservation, and at the appointed time we headed down I-4 to brave the traffic nightmare that is International Drive. Indeed, even I-4 itself was moving slowly but at least we made steady forward progress. The exit was backed up so far that we sat through three traffic light sequences before we finally managed to get moving again.

Taverna Opa is located in Pointe Orlando, a rather God-forsaken shopping center that I've passed often but never visited. It has a multi-story parking garage, which is the kiss of death for me (for some reason, I have an unreasonable hatred of parking structures...perhaps it's a leftover vestige of the general horror of parking in downtown Chicago, where garages are a special hell but are often the only option). But since we had a purpose in visiting, I steeled myself to park in the concrete cavern. There was a charge, but I figured that the restaurant would probably validate the parking slip.

When I had called for reservations, the helpful person I spoke with had instructed me to park on the third level and head across the walkway. Indeed, that was the simplest way, although Taverna Opa is not easily visible until you've walked quite a ways down. The area was a semi-ghost town; there was a Hooters and some other kind of restaurant that were both open, but there was also a huge former eatery that appeared to be abandoned, with a tax lein notice on the door. Not the sort of thing to inspire confidence in the financial viability of the shopping center!

Of course, it made me think of Mercado, another former shopping center just a bit farther down the road. We went there to see the Titanic exhibit a couple of months ago, and it's a good thing we did because the whole place is now shut down and mostly demolished. Titanic was virtually the only thing left open when we visited, and shortly thereafter they were evicted from the complex as one of the final steps to clear the way for the demolition. Apparently they are going to build a new shopping center there, which begs the question: If the old one couldn't survive, why on earth would a new one be able to?

At least Pointe Orlando didn't seem quite as forlorn as Mercado. There was a cinema that seemed to be doing an okay amount of business, although I couldn't tell whether the stores on the lower level were drawing any traffic.

I was a bit worried, however, when we entered Taverna Opa. Considering that at was almost 7 p.m. on a Friday night, I was expecting a capacity crowd. At many of the free-standing I-Drive restaurants, like Cafe Tu Tu Tango, you face an hour or more of wait time on the weekend. In contrast, the Taverna was almost empty.

We were quickly seated and began our perusal of the comprehensive menu. It was chock full of options with a Greek flair, including several iterations of lamb, lemon chicken, kabobs, and even a gyros plate! They start you off with bread and hummus spread, and that hummus was delicious! I also loved their iced tea, which had some sort of a subtle fruit flavor. I drink my tea unsweetened, despite the fact that that's a mortal sin in the South, so I always love flavored-but-unsweetened versions.

It was difficult to decide from all the mouth-watering options. To start with, we ordered yogurt/cucumber dip and saganaki (for the uninitiated, that is a flaming cheese appetizer). I was a little surprised when they didn't flame the cheese at our table, as the usual Greek restaurant standard is to bring it to the table, pour on the brandy, touch it with a match, and watch the resulting conflagration.

I need not have worried, as there was plenty of pyromania yet to come that would make flaming cheese look tame. But I'm getting ahead of the story...eventually I decided on the Chilean Sea Bass, while hubby had some sort of seafood-laden Greek paella, filled with mussels, scallops, and even octopus! He ordered the house white wine as an accompaniment, while I stuck with my iced tea.

As we munched on our appetizers, the excitement began around us. There was music, dancing around the restaurant by both the servers and the guests, and a vertiable shower of paper napkins that rained down from the ceiling! We watched, dazzled by the spectacle, as it progressed to literal dancing on the tables! It's a bit hard to make out, but below is a camera phone shot of the table dancing:



Fortunately, more diners had trickled in so there was more of a crowd to catch the energy and to participate in the revelry.

In addition to the group dancing, a belly dancer appeared and put on quite a performance. Her talent wasn't limited to gyrating her belly; she soon demonstrated her talent for handling fire as well! She tossed, touched, and even ate the flame...ouch!

Since the camera phone didn't have a flash, it came out rather blurry. But that bright blob in the picture below is flame, and you can also see the "snowfall" of napkins scattered on the floor around here. After the first dance number, the whole restaurant is pretty much covered in a blanket of napkins, much like the peanut shells that you encounter in Logan's Steakhouse:

The show was so entertaining that I realized I was neglecting my sea bass. I quickly tucked into my meal, and it was excellent. The portions were very generous, so I ended up taking a big hunk home that hubby will devour for lunch. Somehow he managed to finish every bit of seafood on his brimming plate and to still have room for dessert. He had walnut cake, while I tried the baklava. Since I was already quite full, I ended up taking most of that home, too.

I never dared mention my birthday; at a place where people dance on table tops and eat fire, I couldn't even imagine what sort of embarrassment I might be subjected to.

I noticed that more and more people trickled in over the course of the evening, although the restaurant never came close to filling. It needs to be in a more visible location; it would be very difficult to stumble upon it by accident. It's a wonderful eatery, and I'd hate to see it close down just because of a poor location.

It's still pretty new, so I hope that it catches on and pulls in some traffic from the convention center. It already has great word-of-mouth here in Celebration on our intranet, and that is rather rare as people in our town are often faster to condemn a business than to praise one.

We'll definitely be back to Taverna Opa, and if I indulge in a martini (or two or three) next time from their extensive menu, who knows...I might just be dancing on the tables too!

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The Off Season is OVER!

I headed out to the Animal Kingdom this morning, as I've had a hankering to ride Kilimanjaro Safari and Expedition Everest. Having been spoiled by uncrowded parks and miniscule wait times, I was hoping to get in two or three safari rides and as much Everest as I could handle. I also like to ride Dinosaur if possible, and when I'm feeling particularly masochistic I take a spin in Primeval Whirl.

Today I also wanted to walk the nature paths in Africa and Asia. Africa's star feature is gorillas, but I actually had myself more primed to see the meerkats. Somehow I became a fan of "Meerkat Manor" on Animal Planet; I tried to avoid it, but those beady-eyed little rodents sucked me into their soap opera world like a furry, irresistable whirlpool. Since there is a meerkat gang at AK, I like to visit them in person every now and then. Asia's star feature is the tigers, although their fruit bat habitat is rather interesting too.

Little did I realize that I'd made a grave error in planning. I know that the off-season is pretty much over, but if I get to the park early I can usually get in quite a bit of activity before the restless, sweaty hoardes descend. Unfortunately, I failed to realize that AK was the early entry park today. That means that Disney resort guests were able to go in an hour before the official opening time...and apparently they had turned out in droves.

I headed directly to the safari, where I normally grab a Fastpass, then catch a ride in the standby line, which is usually no more than 20 minutes at opening time. Then I do my Fastpass ride, grab another Fastpass, and head to Everest for a mini-marathon. When dizziness overtakes me on the roller coaster, I do my last safari ride and leave. Usually I managed to fit Dinosaur in on the way out.

Unfortunately, today the standby line was already horrendous, and the Fastpass return time was much later than usual. I grabbed a Fastpass and killed time on the exploration trail. The meerkats were out and about, grubbing around for food. Just like on TV, one of them was stuck with sentry duty while the others foraged and gorged. The silly little critters don't realize that there aren't many predators to worry about in the safe confines of the Animal Kingdom. No gos hawks, puff adders, or king cobras like the poor Whiskers clan as to deal with in Africa!

I watched them for a while, then checked out the gorillas. They were all busily chowing down on breakfast. Finally it was Fastpass time, so I headed over for my safari ride. I got another Fastpass, but the return time was so late that I knew it would be nearly impossible to work into my schedule. I'd have to content myself with only one round of Kilimjaro.

Thankfully it was a good round. All of the animals were out and about, including the elusive cheetahs. They are my personal favorites, but they're always way back in the bushes, staying just out of human sight range. Today they were just barely visible, lying in the shade.

In the lion habitat, the big male was actually on the move. That's rare; whenever I see him, he's usually sprawled out on his rock in a feline coma. Today he was walking around and roaring, and it was quite a sight.

I also saw the usual assortment of critters: black rhinos, white rhinos (including a baby), warthogs (although it always seems to me that they should be in with the meerkats; after all, Timon and Pumbaa got along so well), zebras, ostriches, flamingos, giraffes, gnus, mandrills, elephants, various hooved cattle and antelope, crocs, hippos, and goodness only knows what else. Why go on a real African safari when I can head down Osceola Parkway and spot droves and droves of critters?

Next I went to the Conservation Station via the train, hoping to kill enough time to use my next Fastpass. Even though I did the "sounds of the rainforest" booth and wandered around a bit, it was still too early. I resigned myself to skipping my second safari, since I knew that I wouldn't have time to hike all the way back after riding Everest. By then, it would be time to head home for work.

Oh well, at least I'd get in a few roller coaster rides...or would I? The standby line was supposedly 40 minutes, although seeing the snake of people running past the entrance I think that was a bit optimistic. I joined the singles line, which was longer than I had ever seen it. Worse, it was loading like molasses. By the time 35 minutes had passed, I was just boarding a train. You know the park is crowded when singles is almost as long as standby!

Since it had taken so long, I didn't have time to ride it again. Instead I hustled off to check the Dinosaur line. Normally it's 10 minutes tops, but today the line was out the door. I debated on whether it was worth it, but finally I decided to grab a ride. Fortunately it moved pretty quickly, so I was done in plenty of time to get to work.

As I worked my way out of the park, I marveled at the massive crowds and the insane wait times. When I noticed that "It's Tough to Be a Bug" had a posted wait of 90 minutes, I knew for sure that the off season was done.

On my way to the car, I got my traditional iced coffee. There is a little kiosk on the way where I always get iced tea or some sort of fru fru coffee drink. As I left, I was amazed at the stampeding herd of humanity that was still making its way in.

I sighed, realizing that if AK was this bad, Epcot and the Food and Wine Festival must surely be a joke. Granted, early entry draws more people than usual, but so does the festival. Since World Showcase doesn't open until 11, that means that the waiting pack usually situates itself at Soarin'. No more grabbing a Fastpass, doing a standby ride or too, then gettung yet another Fastpass on the way to use the first one. If you're not one of the first on, the standby line quickly grows to immense proportions, and the Fastpass time ticks forward so rapidly that it makes you dizzy if you watch the clock.

Oh well, the off season was fun while it lasted. I suppose that I can't complain, as many people would give their eye teeth to be able to drive off spontaneously for even one ride on the safari, Everest, and Dinosaur. I just need to reset my expectations and shift them from power riding to primarily people watching. In the meantime, I know that Christmas (and the brief pre-holiday off season teaser) will be here all too soon.

Visit my Celebration, FL website: http://www.celebrationinfo.com/

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The Love Bug Jitter

There's a new dance craze sweeping the Walt Disney World resort: The Love Bug Jitter. It consists of hopping around frantically while screaming and slapping at your body. You can see it at any of the theme parks, and you can be reasonably certain that anyone you see performing this dance is not a Florida native.

Having lived in Celebration for a few years now, the twice-annual love bug invasion has become just another part of everyday life for me, like the ever-present lizards, the occasional 'gator, short but drenching afternoon showers, and the threat of hurricanes. I grimace when they splatter on my windshield and smack them away if they're tickling my bare skin, but otherwise they are an ignored part of the background.

Thus, it was with great amusement that I watched the reactions of unprepared tourists at Epcot the other day. You would have thought they were being swarmed with deadly stinging bees or fire ants; they jumped and writhed and slapped and screamed as though engulfed with dangerous, venemous insects.

The only danger from love bugs lies in their acidic guts, which have destroyed many a Floridian's automotive paint job. On human skin they are harmless. They alight but they don't bite; they are much more interested in getting as much mating done as possible before the end of their brief lifespan. This propensity for mating, and the fact that they tend to fly in attached pairs, is how they earned their name.

I saw the dance nearly everywhere I went. I could understand it if a person is truly bug-phobic, but the percentage of people I saw performing the Love Bug Jitter was way above the percentage of those who would harbor such a phobia. It's like being attacked by a piece of the real world when they thought they were immersed and protected in the womb of Disney's magic was too much for them to bear.

Perhaps the Epcot Food and Wine Festival played a role. Some of the most ardent dancers were freaking out about the bugs' proximity to their food. I wonder if they realize that the Food and Drug Administration allows a certain level of bug parts into the food consumed by Americans each day. For example, it's perfectly acceptable for peanut butter to contain 30 insect fragments per 100 grams, while wheat flour can contain a whopping 75 insect parts per 50 grams. Given those statistics, a love bug wing or two just added to the already-present "natural protein."

Whatever the reason, it was quite amusing to watch the acrobatics. I truly believe that some of those tourists could have tried out for "So You Think You Can Dance." Just release a few love bugs into the audition room and they'd launch into a dazzling performance.

Fortuntely, the nasty little buggers will die out over the next few weeks, and we'll have a reprieve till next spring. I'm sure that the popularity of the Love Bug Jitter will be renewed then too. If I happen to ever get bored in the theme parks during that season, all I need to do is plop onto a bench and look around me. There will be plenty of free entertainment, all brought to me courtesy of Florida's favorite bi-annual pest.

Visit my Celebration, FL website: http://www.celebrationinfo.com/

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Milking the Last of the Offseason

In Chicago, spring and fall were always the shortest seasons. Muggy, humid summer and bitter, frigid winter always seemed to drag on and on. But for a few precious days we'd have beautiful, balmy weather. In spring, the sun would kiss your face and the breezes tickled your hair and teased you with the promise of warmth after an endless winter. It wasn't too hot or too cold...it was the kind of day when you could wear short sleeves and bask in the perfect temperature as you romped below blue skies and puffy white clouds right out of a watercolor painting. The flowers were blooming, the robins had returned, and all was right with the world.

Of course, that never lasted, nor did the fall that followed after summer's tyranical reign. Fall was always a bit depressing because it was the harbinger of winter, but how can you hate a season when the smell of wood smoke drifts on the air as nature brushes the leaves with broad strokes from a fiery palatte. Unlike spring, the warmth isn't a welcome harbinger. It's a temporary luxury to be savored because all too soon it will be gone.

We don't have those extremes here in Florida; summer and fall can be pleasant, but they don't have the impact here as they do in climates with temperature extremes. But we do have seasons to be savored: the brief breathers that come between the peak tourist times.

By now, I thought that the off-season would be just about over. My husband and I were hankering to head to the Magic Kingdom, since we hadn't rode Space Mountain in ages and were anxious to see the newly-rehabbed Haunted Mansion. We had hoped to get there closer to Labor Day, but our transatlantic cruise and the ensuing backup of work had put our time at a premium.

The coming of the Food and Wine Festival at Epcot ushers in the next wave of crowds, so we figured that we'd just have to use Fastpasses judiciously. Hubby had worked late on Thursday, so we was able to take Friday morning off. Since it was the first day of the festival, we hoped that some of the crowds would be drawn off to Epcot. Unfortunately, it was also the Little Ones Extra Magic Hour (LOEMH) at the Magic Kingdom, so I had nightmares of being trapped among a higher-than-usual concentration of Stroller Nazis running down hapless pedestrians in their character-seeking frenzy.

LOEMH runs from 8 to 9, so we figured that it might not be so bad if we arrived a little bit after opening. As we approached the toll plaza, there weren't too many cars so I took that as a good sign. We parked the Family Truckster and began the hike of life to the Ticket and Transportation Center (TTC), where you have to park to access the Magic Kingdom.

TTC is a vestige of Walt's old desire to not have any "regular" vehicles driving up to the park. When MK first opened, you could only access it via monorail or watercraft. Now a veritable platoon of WDW busses destroys the symmetry that Walt had hoped for, but cars are still verboten. You must park at TTC and choose the monorail or the ferry.

Normally, I choose the water route since the ferry is enormous and therefore has the shortest wait. But hubby is a monorail fan, and we hadn't ridden it in ages, so he convinced me to give it a whirl. There was a train sitting in the station, so he figured the wait wouldn't be too bad. Little did he know!

The waiting train was empty; it sat in the station for several minutes before being dispatched with no riders. We waited at the gates for the next train, which eventually glided in. The crowd pressed in anxiously, ready for the ride to the Magic Kingdom. Alas, we sat there...and sat there...and sat there. Periodically there would be an annoucement that we were holding for "traffic clearance" (later, they said that a train was being taken off the beam). After a good 10 minutes of inertia, we finally headed off to the park, albeit at a snail's pace. By the time they got there (no doubt after two or three ferry-loads of passengers had been disgorged in the meantime), my husband remembered graphically while we usually opt for the boat.

Still, we were in no big hurry; we figured the park would be so crowded that we'd grab a Space Mountain Fastpass, ride the Haunted Mansion, then use our FP and call it a day. Amazingly, as we headed into Tomorrowland, we saw that the waits for virtually everything were minimal to non-existent. We got our Fastpass, but we also rode the coaster in the standby line since it was too tempting not to. We rode Haunted Mansion twice, admiring the awesome new effects (I won't describe them here because I don't want to spoil it for those who have not ridden yet). Then we rode both Big Thunder Mountain and Splash Mountain; on the latter, I was reminded why we usually avoid it, as we both got soaked. There was no wait whatsoever; the man behind us said that the line had been 40 minutes the day before.

We also rode Pirates of the Caribbean and the Wedway People Mover (I refuse to call it the Tomorrowland Transit Authority) before using our Space Mountain Fastpass. The standby line still wasn't all that bad, but sadly we had to leave. Hubby had made lunch reservations at Kona Cafe, and then we both had to work. It was hard to drag ourselves away without doing the Monsters Inc. Laugh Floor, Jungle Cruise, and Carousel of Progress, but alas, making a living has to come first.

We took the monorail to the Polynesian, and since no one else was waiting we were able to ride in the front. A grandmother and granddaughter joined us at the next stop, and the granddaughter excitedly told me all about her trip. Disney World can never get stale or boring for me because when I hear about it through the eyes of a first-timer I'm instantly drawn into their excitement and delight.

We had a delicious lunch at the Poly, then headed back to TTC on the monorail so that hubby would have enough of a fix to last him for a long time. As we drove back to Celebration, the adult part of me knew that it was time to attend to grown-up responsibilities, but the inner child pouted at having to leave and give up such prime park time.

At least we had some amusement on the way back. At the Grand Floridian, a family consisting of mother, father, and two girls embarked. Mom and the girls sat next to hubby and I; since there wasn't enough room for everyone, Dad sat across the aisle. The rest of the people in our car got off at the next stop, so the girls moved over to sit with dad. But even though there was plenty of room on that side, Mom stayed next to hubby. And I mean next to him; even though she had a whole empty seat next to her now, she stayed right up against him.

Their conversation was priceless:

Mom (as they boarded): Where does this thing go?

Dad: I have no idea.

Mom: Okay, we'll take it to MGM.

They were still on board when hubby and I got off at TTC, so goodness only knows where they finally ended up.

On Sunday, we decided to hit Epcot for the Food and Wine festival. We doubted that it would be as dead as the Magic Kingdom had been, but our main goal was to graze at the food stations. We figured we could get a Fastpass for Soarin' and maybe ride Nemo and Test Track, but for the most part we'd focus on the cuisine once World Showcase opened.

We got to the park right at opening time and trooped off to the rope holding eager guests back from the pathway that leads to the Land pavillion. At rope drop time, we all trooped in a massive mob behind the poor CMs, who must have felt like Simba trying to stay ahead of the stampeding wildebeest herd. I kept my eyes on the CMs in Soarin' costumes and followed them all the way into the Land pavillion, downstairs, and into the queue of my all-time favorite Epcot ride (well, existing ride anyway...the original Journey into Imgination will always be number one). Usually we grab a Fastpass, but I gave that up in favor of getting the first ride of the day.

The crowd density was lower than I had expected, so between Fastpasses and the standby line we managed to get in seven rounds on Soarin'. Inbetween waiting for our Fastpass times to come up, we rode Nemo and saw Turtle Talk With Crush. Turtle Talk is truly a gem; creative, amusing, and all-around fun. I'm sure that little kids leave the theater believing that they're really talked to Crush (sometimes I wonder myself!).

Our last Fastpass wasn't good until 3:30 and it was only noonish, so we headed out to World Showcase. The day before, we had printed out the menus and marked down our preferred choices. The food is served in "sampler" sizes, so it's a great way to taste a lot of new offerings.

I managed to consume a lamb slider from New Zealand, native peach buckle from Oklahoma, walnut baklava and iced mint tea from Morocco, honey wine from Poland, spaetzle with mushrooms from Germany, chicken with peanut sauce and a green tea plum wine cooler from China, curried butternut squash soup and rice pudding from India, and pudding with a sugar cookie from Peru. Even with the mini sizes, I was plenty full by the time we had completed our walk around the world.

We hit the singles line of Test Track on the way out, then used our Fastpass for one final Soarin' fling. That made a total of eight rides, my most ever. I'd like to hit the double digits someday, but that's hard on Soarin' since, as a spoiled local, I won't do any standby line more than 20 minutes long.

It had been a busy weekend of theme park fun; the crowds will continue to swell, and our visits will dwindle in number until the next breather between Thanksgiving and Christmas. But we've gotten a good "fix" to last us until then; I miss spring and fall in Chicago a little, but the theme park offseason more than makes up for it.

Visit my Celebration, FL website: http://www.celebrationinfo.com/

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Dream a Little Dream With Me

Walt Disney World is currently in the thick of the Year of a Million Dreams (actually, it will be two million since they extended it for another year). People at the theme parks, the hotels, and even Downtown Disney are randomly selected for a variety of prizes. It can be something as simple as a pin lanyard or as fantastic as a DVC membership or a stay overnight in Cinderella's castle (which a family from Celebration actually won recently).

Winning one of the big ones is akin to hitting the lottery, but they're pretty generous with items like lanyards, Mickey ears, and Dream Fast Passes (which allow recipients to ride each FastPass ride in the park once). Still, with all the times I've visited WDW this year, I've never managed to luck out.

I've come very close more than once. One morning at the Animal Kingdom the ride vehicle in front of me won three separate times (Dream Fastpasses twice and ears once, twice on the safari and once on Dinosaur). Other than that, the closest I've come to seeing the Dream Team CMs is seconhand via seeing people wearing their prizes. The fastpasses are big blue rectangles worn around the neck, and the ears are blue with clouds.

I can console myself with the fact that the Dream Fastpasses wouldn't be all that useful to me in any park other than the Magic Kingdom. At Epcot, I focus almost totally on Soarin' and throw in a single rider line or two on Test Track; at Disney-MGM, I only bother with Tower of Terror; and at AK I have a good system down. I get there early, grab a fastpass for the safari and then ride it once stand-by. Then I hightail it to Everest, ride to fulfillment in the single riders line, do my second safari ride, and hit Dinosaur on the way out (it rarely has any line to speak of). The Dream Fastpasses serve a newbie much better than someone like me who knows how to work the system.

Still, I figured that it would be nice to win something, yet months went on and Lady Luck never smiled down on me. Hubby hadn't won anything either, but he tends to go to the parks late at night when the day's giving is done. I am more of a morning person, hitting them shortly after opening and riding my favorites repetitively until the crowd density makes the line too long.

This morning we decided to go to the Animal Kingdom, as we've both been hankering for a ride on Expedition Everest. The skies looked gray and threatening, but we're old hands at tempting fate. We wore waterproof sandals and brought rain ponchos, well prepared for the worst case scenario.

We approached the parking toll booths; I was headed to an empty one when another vehicle suddenly veered over and cut me off. That was rather annoying but not all that uncommon in the world of Me-First theme park goers. We waited until he had gone; then the attendant took care of the person on the other side (they alternate) and retured to our side where I was waving hubby's annual pass.

APs are good for free parking, and normally they only rate a cursory glance to make sure that they are not expired. This time, however, the attendant actually took it into the toll booth with him. Then we noticed him writing something, which was a real puzzle. When he came back out, we discovered that we had won Dream Parking! He handed us the placard below:

Ironically, I have a AAA parking pass, but Dream Parking is so much cooler! Of course, I noticed it was hubby who won rather than unlucky me; he enjoyed pointing out that it was his name on the placard. We drove up to the Peacock lot (closest to the front) and proudly displayed our sign of privilege in the Family Truckster.

The park was fairly dead, so we managed to get in two rides on the safari, four on Expedition Everest, and one on Dinosaur before we called it a day. It was a great day for animal spotting on Kilimanjaro; the white rhinos, giraffes, and zebras were so close to the vehicles that they were practically in the road, and the lioness was showing off on the top of the highest rock in her enclosure. When we first went to Everest, it had had some sort of catastropic failure and was broken down so we rode Dinosaur instead. When we returned, the coaster was up and running once again.

The Dream Team seemed to be rather stingy in the park today. I saw no ears or lanyards and only a couple of Dream Fast Passes. Hubby did see someone getting filmed in the front car of Everest, so hopefully that means they were winning some sort of big prize.

The rain held off for the most part, although we did get briefly sprinkled on. It held the crowds at bay for a while, but when we were leaving we noticed a huge influx. We didn't care, as we had milked the early part of the day for all that it was worth.

We returned to the Family Truckster, waiting patiently in its primo parking spot, and headed off to Cracker Barrel for lunch. Now I could no longer say that I'd never gotten a dream, even though it was by proxy. I know that it must be a huge thrill to win the major dreams, but I also know that the odds are quite miniscule. You have to take your fun where you can get it; even though Dream Parking might be small potatoes compared to winning a DVC membership, it put a little extra magic into the day for hubby and I.

Visit my Celebration, FL website: http://www.celebrationinfo.com/

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The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

According to Andy Williams, Christmas is the most wonderful time of the year. As a resident of the Orlando/Kissimmee area, I would beg to differ. For me and many other theme park-addicted locals, the brief interlude between Labor Day and October is just about as wonderful as you can get.

All summer long, Disney World is a mob scene. I don't visit the theme parks in July and August unless I'm feeling the need for self-punishment. But once Labor Day passes, the kids are all back in school and Mom and Dad don't want to pull them out for a vacation because its so early in the school year. Thus the parks are deserted by summer standards, and the locals all come out to play in the virtual ghost town.

Over the past couple weeks, I've been over-indulging on a huge dose of Disney. I went to Epcot last weekend and racked up four rides on Soarin' in the morning, including some in the standby line. In the summer, it's often two hours; I will not deign to wait in it unless its 20 minutes or less. Thus you can guess just how dead the park was!

I returned to Epcot with a friend this past week to see if the lines were still non-existent. Sure enough, between the standby and Fastpass lines we rode it five times and could easily have done a sixth. I have a limitless capacity for flying over the orange groves and diving over ocean and forests of California, but after the fifth ride she was ready for some lunch. We hiked over to Mexico and then took walk around World Showcase. I was utterly amazed at just how deserted the park was. There were a few scattered knots of people, but compared to the summer it was downright barren. We also rode Living With The Land and Test Track (singles line) before calling it a day.

This weekend hubby and I wanted to visit Typhoon Lagoon. As the weather cools, my thin Floridian blood won't be able to handle water parks much longer, so we wanted to take advantage of the still summer-level temperatures.

We had planned to go on Saturday, but we got a late start because I had to work so we ened up going to Universal Studio instead. We had a very late lunch at Bubba Gumps, followed by a walk to the park. The standby wait times were only 20 to 30 minutes, but since we have Premier Passes we had pretty much no wait at all via using the Express lines.

On Sunday, we decided to hit the water park right after church. We ate a late breakfast to tide us over so that we could skip lunch and then have an early dinner after our playtime. Typhoon Lagoon was only open until 5 p.m., but we figured we'd actually have even less time due to the typical afternoon thunderstorms. The sky started out clear, but questionable dark clouds were already gathering on the horizon as we floated around the lazy river.

Typhoon was just as uncrowded as the theme parks. The number of times you could ride the water slides was dependent only on your ability to keep climbing the stairs. There was a short wait for Crush N Gusher, the water "roller coaster," but nothing too terrible.

Even with the sparse crowds, I recoiled at the grossness of my fellow human beings. We stopped at the restrooms near the snorkeling reef, and I witnessed the second worst bathroom that I've ever seen in my life (the absolute worst was at a beach on Lake Erie in Ohio). In the first stall, someone had taken a healthy dump and had conveniently forgotten to flush. The second contained a mixture of wadded toilet paper and blood whose origins I was frightening to contemplate. The third contained a dump that rivaled the first. Maybe the creators hadn't actually forgotten to flush. Maybe I had inadvertently stumbled into the 2007 World Crap Championships and was viewing entries waiting to be judged. Thankfully we found cleaner restrooms by Crush N Gusher, but I was still reeling from the filth I had witnesses.

My next reminder of the grossness of the human animal occurred when I was leaving the wave pool. A guy walking with his family suddenly did a huge hocker and spit his big wad of phlegm into the pool. Ugh! Apparently he, or perhaps a relative-in-training, had visited the next water fountain I used, too, and had left a big, festering, slimy wad right beside the fountain. At that point, I was ready to take a bath in antibacterial soap and swath myself in Saran Wrap before entering any more bodies of water.

Even with the gross-outs, we were having a wonderful day. We had originally planned to stay for a couple of hours, but we were having so much fun that we quickly lost track of time. The storm clouds overhead seemed to be blowing over, so we thought we might actually make it until 5 p.m. Unfortunately, as we were taking another spin around the lazy river while planning our next round of watersliding, it started to rain. Then it started to pour, although we just ignored it since we were wet already. But then we heard a sudden crack of thunder that sounded like it was right overhead. Immediately we knew that the day was over; at the first sign of thunder and lightning it's "Everybody out of the pool."

Reluctantly we headed to our locker to drag our drowned-rat carcasses home. All around us was an amusing sight: soaking wet people in swimsuits huddled in stores and doorways and under canopies, trying desperately to avoid the rain. Duh, people, you're wet already! Really, really wet...the rain ain't gonna get you any wetter! Do you think that you're fine in chlorinated pools but that rain water will cause you to melt?

Thankfully we had a plastic bag in which to stuff our beach duffel. We traipsed through the downpour to the Family Truckster and joined the conga line of bailing bathers heading out of the parking lot.

After drying off at home, we headed out to the Chevys at Lake Buena Vista for dinner. Hubby noticed that they had window frames as decorations between the sections; he thought that they were knew, but I was certain that I had seen them before. Suddenly it hit me: they were from the Chevys on 192 that had closed. We asked on the way out, and sure enough they had been salvaged from the defunct location. The Kissimmee Chevys may be gone, but a little piece of it will live on across the street from Disney World.

Even with the washout, it had been another great day in the off-season. I'm hoping that I have one more week before the crowds return; in the meantime, you can find me particpating in a Soarin' marathon or romping through the near-deserted streets of one of the other parks.

Visit my Celebration, FL website: http://www.celebrationinfo.com/

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The Church Bells

Celebration is supposed to be the archetypal Small Town U.S.A. of a bygone era. While it does have some facets that remind me of my growing-up years, there are also some glaring differences...and a few precious things that are the same.

Perhaps one of the biggest gaps is the absence of the corner store. We used to have a grocery store downtown that is long gone now, but even when it was there, it wasn't quite the same. In my old neighborhood, there was a corner store literally every few blocks. I look back in wonderment on how they could have all survived in such close proximity. But of course that survival was limited, and as the supermarkets gained dominance they died out one by one. If you go through my old neighborhood now, you can see the faint ghosts of Corner Stores Past. The buildings are all still there, but the windows are long since boarded and painted over and the shop space is now just extended living areas.

I miss those corner stores, where the main stock in trade was milk and bread and lunchmeat. All of those stores seemed to have the same smell, sort of an odd, musty odor of vague disrepair. Indeed, they weren't the cleanest places, not like the antiseptic, white-flourescent stores of the modern world. But instead of a faceless cashier, you were rung up by your neighbor Joe. Even before you said it, he knew you were going to order a quarter pound of sliced ham.

I made many runs to the local shop, money clutched tightly in my grubby fist and mind focused on my mission, which was usually to buy a gallon of milk. As a matter of fact, that's what everyone in our neighborhood called our nearest shop: The Milk Store. It had a real name, but nobody knew or cared.

Corner stores were also treasure troves for kids, as they tended to have a great stock of sweets. I'm old enough to actually remember penny candy, although young enough to recall when it moved up to two cents and then to a nickle. It was pure heaven to head out with a quarter, or maybe even fifty cents, to buy a bag of Heaven. Candy lipsticks, candy necklaces, Pixie Sticks, Alexander the Grape, Pez and their bastard cousin, Candy Tabs (which I actually preferred), Razzles, Beechnut candy coated gum (make mine pepsin or fruit, please), Super Cherry Chicklets...ah, the list could go on and on.

But alas, here in Celebration the kids have no equivalent. The grocery shopping gets done at Super Target or Sam's or Publix or Wal-Mart, and interim milk or bread can be grabbed at a gas station or convenience store.

We do have pools, but they're nothing like the neighborhood pool of my childhood. Our local pool had three diving boards; back then, high dives were seen as something fun instead of as potential lawsuit magnets. I'll never forget the first time that I ventured off that high dive. It was only ten feet tall, but it seemed like at least one hundred to my scaredy-cat younger self. I ventured up the concrete stairs a few times, sidled my way to the edge, and then retreated in terror. But finally one day I got enough guts to actually take the plunge. What a rush!

In those days, we also loved to do the Nestea Plunge from the sides of the pool. Nowadays I imagine it would be forbidden as a good way to crack your head open.

That pool also had the world's best snack bar, serving up greasy cheeseburgers and fries and frozen Charleston Chew candy bars for dessert. In my adulthood, I have eaten at some of the finest restaurants, but I would trade them all to go back for just one summer and relive the simple joy of huddling beneath a towel and downing french fries drowned in ketchup as rock music blasts on a tinny speaker system and the smell of chlorine tickles my nose, beckoning me back to the water. There are no snack bars or high dives at the pools in Celebration, and I feel sorry for the local kids who will miss out on the memories that those things would create.

A couple of years ago, I read that my old neighborhood pool was shut down and concreted over. A year before that, two kids had scaled the fence for a midnight swim and drowned. I imagine the ensuing lawsuit spelled doom for my childhood stomping ground. After all, the neglegent park district didn't have the fence electrified and patroled by Dobermans, with half a dozen security guards, strobe lights, and signs posted every two feet reading, "Warning: Acting Like a Dumbass Can Be Fatal."

But even though Celebration lacks many of those genuine small-town touches, I was reminded today of one small thing that instantly transports me back to my childhood: the church bells. As a kid, my house was only a couple of blocks away from a church whose bells sounded on every quarter hour. It became an accepted part of the background soundtrack of my childhood. There was something comforting about the bells...I could always tell that time it was, and I always knew that I was on my home ground.

I don't know the name of the melody they played, but I think it might be the Big Ben chime. It would play a brief part for the quarter hour, a little more for the half, a bit more for three quarters and then the whole melody when striking the hour. It's funny how that made an impression on me, even in my earliest years. My grandparents lived in the house before we did, and I still have vague memories of being perhaps two or three years old. My grandpa was pushing me in the kiddie swings at the park down by the pool. It was just turning dusk, and I remember feeling the breeze on my face, looking up at the twightlight sky, seeing the treetops beyond the park, and hearing the hour chime. Ah, to be that age again, with no worries of a mortgage or work responsibilities or why the car is making a funny noise...to just be and to know that you have grandparents who love you and that everything is right with the world.

I was driving down Celebration Avenue recently, and as I passed Community Presbyterian Church I heard the bells toll the half hour. At first it startled me, as we don't live close enough to the church to hear that from home. Thus, I always forget that little bit of nostalgia unless I happen to be downtown at the right time.

They say that smells are powerful at stimulating memories, but in this case sound was just as effective. There I was, in the midst of frantically running errands, when suddenly the bells made me pause and return to a simpler time. The stress melted away, if only briefly, replaced by a spreading smile.

Perhaps one day around twilight I will walk down to Lakeside Park and sit in one of the rockers near the pool, looking at the treetops beyond the park. My beloved grandpa won't be there, except in spirit, and rocking will be much tamer than soaring in a swing. But when the church bells chime, perhaps I can just be for a few moments and know that everything is right with the world.

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Swimming in the Poo-uhl

This week I went for a swim in the East Village pool, and as I splashed around in the balmy water I realized that it was the first time in well over a year. I'm not sure what caused me to break my self-imposed exile from the pool. I think it just looked too tempting; I drove by it several times, and each time it was completely empty (it was early so the kids were still in school). The temperature was hovering near 90, so the crisp blue water just looked too inviting to resist. Finally I gave in to its siren song, slipped on my swimsuit, and hiked over to get some aquatic exercise.

Exercise is a bit of a challenge in the East Village pool iteration. In Celebration, several villages have pools that can be used by any member of our homeowners association. The pools in Main, North, and South Villages are all large rectangular pools with lap lanes. In East Village we were an afterthought. Our "pool" is small and round, with a concrete island in the center, making it a challenge for lap swimming unless you want to know how an endlessly circling goldfish feels. I usually jog in the water, but the pool is shallow (three feet) unless you are close to the concrete center, where it is four feet. Thus, when I want to exercise. I dizzily jog 'round and 'round the island.

I think one of the main reasons that my visits to the local pool ceased is because I belong to the fitness center at Celebration Health. They have a lovely indoor lap pool where I can get my exercise much more easily. Sure, I could go to one of the pools in the other villages, but if I'm going to drive that far, why not just go to the fitness center? There I don't have to worry about the weather or of kids doing cannonballs in the lap lanes.

Another reason I avoid our in-town public pools is that often they become poo-uhls. This year, there was a rash of closings due to "accidents." We have lots of kids and babies in town, so such things are inevitable. Still, I agree with an internet poster who likened swim diapers to "fecal tea bags." Yes, I know that chlorine kills most germs, but I still prefer to confine myself to environments that are feces free whenever possible. In the bigger pools it's not as bad, but the East Village pool is so tiny that any contamination is magnified exponentially.

The last reason is complacency. Once upon a time, back when we were commuting regularly between Illinois and Florida, we visited the pool almost every time we were in town. I still harass my husband about his comment the first time we walked to the pool from our house. As we set out, he lamented, "When we bought the house, I thought the pool was a lot closer. It's soooo far!"

Now, mind you, the pool is all of a five minute's walk, and that's if you're really going slowly. To give you some perspective, there is a larger soccer/athletic field. Duloc Manor is perhaps half a block away from the field on one end, and the pool is at the other end. In Chicago terms, it would be two and a half to three "long blocks" away.

Hubby quickly saw just how off-kilter his comment had been. I suspect that he had somehow mixed up his perspective on where the pool was actually located in relation to our home. If you've ever driven down the curvy spaghetti bowl of Celebration streets, you'll know that's entirely possible. He never admitted it, tho', so every time thereafter that we'd go for a swim, I'd offer to back some dinner and a tent.

In those days, we usually spent less than 48 hours in Celebration at a time. We'd arrive after midnight on Friday and leave on Sunday afternoon. There wasn't time for spontaneous trips to Disney World or Universal because we were usually involved in some house-related project. The pool was a simple nearby pleasure, especially in the winter months. How precious it was to go for a swim, basking in the sunshine while knowing that back in the Windy City the ground was frozen and blanketed in snow.

Back then our pool pass only worked about 20 percent of the time, and whenever we complained, the issue was always blamed on a lightning strike. They say lightning never strikes twice, but I think it must have had a direct, multiple-strike line to that pool gate. We'd "break in" by bringing a stepladder to facilitate climbing over the gate.

Now, being here full time, we can devote our energies to other activities. When we do decide to swim, it's a lot more tempting to take a dip in our hot tub right in the backyard. The tub is a fancy seven-person model with a different set of therapeutic jets in each seat. The temperature is always a nice, toasty 99 (or wherever we set it). I know that no poopy diapers have sullied its pristine waters and that the chemical mix is just right. And, given the size of the East Village pool, it's really not all that much smaller! (Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating, but just a little.)

Since my blood is now Floridian-thin, I doubt I could even manage to swim in the pool during the winter months. In the commuting days, I could swim down to around 70 degrees. We'd visit Disney World every December, and I remember floating casually down the lazy river at Typhoon Lagoon in my swimsuit and seeing the lifeguards shivering in swim trunks and heavy jackets. Now I'm in a jacket at 70 degrees too!

But for now the temperatures are still at near-summer levels, and with the kids in school the pools are quiet in the morning and early afternoon. I really enjoyed my dip, and it gave me a chance to reach back in time and touch base with my earlier self. As I jogged around in the water, I thought back to those days when we usually visited the pool on Monday morning before getting ready for our flight to Chicago. Back then, the time whizzed by at light speed. I'd enjoy the swim, but I hated the fact that it heralded the end of another visit to the place that I truly felt was home.

I remember thinking about what it would be like when we finally lived in Celebration full-time. Would that day ever come? What would it feel like? Wouldn't it be wonderful to visit the pool as often as I wanted and to be able to stay as long as I liked?

Now that I have the capability, I take it for granted. I still know how lucky I am, but that luck is an accepted part of my life, not a tantalizing gem gleaming just out of reach. Perhaps I should go for a swim more often and reconnect with the ghost of that woman who was so homesick for Celebration just a few short years ago. It never hurts to reminded just how precious it is to live somewhere that you truly love.

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Flashback

Tonight, in my quest for fresh guacamole, I had a flashback to my days in Illinois. Here in Florida, authentic Mexican food is just about as rare as a bargain at Disney World. Even though I miss it, my taste is somewhat saited by the pseudo-Mex at Chevys. They serve something called Fresh Mex, which means that nothing comes out of a can. While their dishes are not necessarily authentic (I babysat for a Mexican family as a teen, and nary a crab and shrimp flauta nor portabello mushroom quesedilla issued forth from their kitchen), I still enjoy them. Chevys is one of my regular haunts for a quick lunch or dinner.

Once upon a time, back in Illinois, there was a Chevys doppleganger called On The Border. Actually, it wasn't an exact replica; although they share menu items like fresh guacamole made tableside, Chevys doesn't have one very important delicacy that was featured at On the Border: Chocolate Turtle Empanadas.

How do I describe them? How can one put into words the pure ecstacy and bliss of the world's perfect dessert? I'll start off with the official menu description: flaky pastries filled with chocolate, caramel and pecans, rolled in cinnamon sugar. Served warm with vanilla ice cream.

Take it from me, they don't need ice cream. I always turned it down because ice cream merely distracts from the culinary symphany of chocolate, nuts, caramel and pecans all playing their masterpiece on my tongue. Sadly, Chevys doesn't have any dessert items that even come close. Or maybe I should say "gladly," since the absence of that calorie laden temptation has probably saved me from an untold number of additional pounds of body weight.

But when I lived in Illinois, the turtles were easily attainable. I lived in ignorance of their existence for years, until one day I was at a training seminar and went to On the Border for lunch. Upon discovering its wonderful food, of which the dessert was only the cherry on the sundae, I decided to see if there was a location closer to home (the seminar was over an hour's drive away).

I discovered a location at a shopping center called River Oaks; not right in my backyard, but neither was it outside of reasonable striking distance. Thus, On the Border became a regular stop on my regular restaurant rotation. Hubby and I also had a particular fondness for the tableside guacamole, which your server would create right before your very eyes...you can't get much fresher than that.

One day, only a few months after discovering On the Border, we innocently drove out to Calumet City, all set for avocado heaven and chocolate bliss. As we approached the building, I wonder, "Why does the parking lot look so deserted?" Upon pulling up, we discovered the reason. It was boarded up tight as a drum and obviously no longer in business. We had been there only a couple of weeks earlier, and our server had excitedly described several new menu items that they were planning to add. There had been no hint of the doom just around the corner.

Alas, there were no other On the Border locations within reasonable striking distance, so they became a distant, melancholy memory. Sometimes I would think back, and it boggled my mind to remember pulling up to the building, my taste buds all set for a familiar meal, only to discover the restaurant gone. The only other time I had ever experienced that was with my favorite German restaurant; one weekend we were going to stop there, but there was a festival so we couldn't find a parking spot. We vowed to return soon, but when we did only two weeks later, we found that it had literally burned to the ground.

Meanwhile, we had discovered Chevys in Illinois. They weren't close by, but we'd go every now and then in memory of On the Border because the food was very similar. When we moved to Florida, we were pleased to discover not one, but two Chevys in our area. We found one at Lake Buena Vista, near the entrance to Disney World, and another on 192 in the heart of Kissimmee.

We generally visited the Lake Buena Vista location, but occasionally we'd go to the one on 192. Tonight, I was in the mood for some guacamole, and I figured that 192 would be less crowded than the one near Disney, so I set off in search of my green, smooshy reward. It was nighttime, so I kept an eye out for the Chevys neon beacon that would signal me when to turn left. I drove and drove...hmmmm...I thought it was near the Target. But I didn't see it, so I kept on going. My inner sense of direction was shooting off alarm bells, but I was sure that I hadn't seen the sign so I kept on going. I passed the K-Mart, passed the half-vacant mall...by now I was certain that I'd gone way too far. I made a quick u-turn, wondering how I could have missed my destination.

I slowed when I approached the Target, my eyes peeled for the restaurant. I almost missed it again, and I quickly discovered why. It was dark. Totally dark. There was not so much as a night light or security light shedding the smallest beam on the forlorn parking lot or in the deserted building. It wasn't boarded up, and hubby wasn't with me...otherwise, it would have been a near total flashback to my On the Border experience.

I pulled up gingerly to the building. Normally its neon looked so inviting, but tonight it was sinister as it sat enveloped in blackness, with not one sign of humanity around it. It was like a blown out bulb on the gaudy string of lights that make up the 192 corridor.

I was hoping that there might be a sign in the window, but no such luck. It was so dark that I couldn't see inside to tell if the building had been stripped. I think that the Chevys sign had been painted over, but in the gloom I couldn't be sure.

Dejectedly I got back in the Family Truckster. At this point, it wasn't about guacomole. It was more about the shock of seeing something I had taken for granted in my world suddenly and unexpectedly disappear. In a way, it was symbol of all the things we take for granted until one day poof! They are are gone. And it was made doubly ironic by the fact that this is 9/11, the day when an entire country lost something it had taken for granted. On that day, we lost something tangible: The Twin Towers. And we lost something intangible, too: A sense of security on our home soil. Before I saw those towers fall, I never could have imagined such horror on American soil. Now, forevermore I could never be that innocent and naive again. That day subtly but permanently changed my entire outlook and the outlook of all my fellow Americans.

As far as I know on the Mexican food front, the Lake Buena Vista location is still open so I can still get my fix. But my unrequited jaunt tonight was a reminder of a much bigger and more important picture. We must never grow too comfortable in our expectations because the solidity of life is an illusion, and we will be reminded of that fact at the most unexpected times.

Visit my Celebration, FL website: http://www.celebrationinfo.com/

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The Chip is Working at Full Strength

In the novel "The Stepford Wives," one of the main villians is nicknamed Diz because he used to work on audioanimatonics at Disney World. Later, the implication is that he has a major role in perfecting the robot wives.

I don't know about robotics, but I do know that Disney has perfected their cranial implant to a frightening degree. I imagine that mine was implanted on my first trip to WDW, in 1989 or '90, when I visited with my sister and stayed at the Contemporary. All of the on-site, Disney-owned resorts have an installation facility, and they do it so quickly and efficiently overnight that you're totally unaware anything has happened when you wake up in the morning. The only things you might notice are an increased craving for Mickey ice cream bars and souvenir t-shirts, a magnetic draw to the Disney theme parks, a zap akin to a shock color when you even consider trying out Universal or Sea World, and a homing pigeon urge to return to WDW at least once a year.

Those who don't believe need only to look at my husband. I was raised in a home laden with Disney propaganda. I had Disney Golden Books and storybooks, watching the Wonderful World of Disney on the Radiation King every weekend, and saw each new big screen cartoon extravaganza. Indoctronated early, I only needed the standard-strength chip to orient me to the Florida homing beam.

Conversely, my husband's household was Disney-free. He knew none of the characters, save for the really, really obvious ones, had never seen a Disney movie and had no desire whatsoever to visit either Disneyland or Disney World. When I married him, I didn't disclose that I was a Disneyphile, but he didn't warn me that he was a Trekkie so I figure we're even. But once the knot was tied, I quickly began working on him for a trip to Orlando.

He's a roller coaster fanatic, so Space Moutain and Big Thunder Mountain were enough to make him consider it. Unfortunately, once we had our first trip planned, our house was flooded so our life was put on hold for three months while it was gutted and rebuilt.

The next year we tried again; the Contemporary was full, so we stayed at the then-new Wilderness Lodge. Since the hotel was brand new, I imagine that the chip installation facility was too. All I know is that I left Chicago with a man who didn't give a rat's patooty (okay, a mouse's patooty) for Disney World, and by the time we had returned he was already chafing at the bit to book another trip.

Over the next decade, we planned other trips too, but we still managed to squeeze in at least one or two Disney World jaunts. In our most active year, we bought Annual Passes and watched ATA's fares; whevever they had a sale, it meant an impromptu weekend trip. That year, we visited so often that I actually started to get tired of Morocco, my favorite Epcot restaurant.

I suspect that Disney can now do remote upgrades, based on our experience with the cruise line. In 1997, we visited the preview center at the Magic Kingdom to see a little movie about Disney Cruise Line's launch the following year. Hubby had no inkling to ever go on a cruise, but his trust in Mickey made him take the leap (actually, I think that "trust" was based on upgrade microwaves beaming out of the preview screen). Now, 58 Disney cruises later, it's obvious that both of us carry the prototype cruise line chip.

I think that actually being in the parks boosts the chip's potency too. It needs a recharge every now and then. Hubby will go, even in the thick of the summer stampede, to see Fantasmic and Illuminations pretty regularly. I remain at Duloc Manor, content to hear the fireworks from a distance. But when he went on Thurs. and told me the Soarin' line was only 20 mins. long, I just had to go on Fri.

As chronicled in yesterday's entry, the lines were considerably longer on Fri. but I still managed to get two rides. Unfortuntately my chip was also boosted to the point where I actually returned this morning! Hubby had his sights set on Typhoon Lagoon, but Soarin' was singing a siren song to me so he set out for TL while I went to Epcot. I figured the lines might be bad since it's a weekend and there is an event going on, but nothing ventured nothing gained.

I got to the park around 10, and amazingly enough the Soarin' line was only 20 mins.! I grabbed a Fast Pass, then rushed through the standby line. Afterwards, it was already time to use my Fast Pass, so I grabbed another and then used up the first. I still had some time to wait for the second one, so I hustled to Test Track and caught a quick ride in the single riders' line, which is usually in the 10 minute rage unless the park is insanely busy.

After that, it was back to Soarin'. At this point, the standby line was fluctuating between 45 and 55 minutes, but that wasn't a worry with my trusty Fast Pass. Being greedy, I grabbed one more pass and then popped in the line to use my current one. After that, I had some time to kill until the third one's timeframe started, so I had some lunch in the food court and caught a quick spin on the Living With the Land boat ride.

Before boarding Soarin', I decided to get one more Fast Pass. Granted, the return time was too late for me to use it, but I figured I could give it to one of the CMs to hand out to a single rider going through standby at the appointed time. Fun stuff like that can make a person's day.

They say no good deed goes unpunished, and indeed that was the case here. The stinkin' Fast Pass machine ate my Annual Pass! Worse yet, it didn't even disgorge a Fast Pass. One of the Cast Members managed to sort it out, but he told me I needed to have Guest Services fix my AP later.

With the trauma over, I joined the Fast Pass ride and had my last flight over California for the day. I just love Soarin'...out of all the rides in any of the Disney parks, if I had to pick just one I'd choose Soarin' without hesitation. Once upon a time my choice would have been "Journey Into Imagination," but alas the wonderful, imaginative, innovation, cute version no longer exists, and I can rarely stomach riding the current travesty.

Two trips to Epcot in less than 24 hours and half a dozen rides on Soarin'....hmmmmmm. Obviously my chip is working at full strength and my Disney World addiction is in full swing.

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