A DAD'S LIFE:I can't help being swept along by the American dream
I HAD it all planned, a day trip to Disneyland. The kids vibrated with excitement and I figured I could tolerate the torture with the prospect of an easy column sneering at the plastic of the American dream waiting at the end. But, as with most of my Yank presumptions, I wound up unable to dismiss it the way I thought I wanted to.
Take for example Paddy's day. The missus and I were astounded: green everywhere. We strolled San Diego zoo, the only family not decked out in emerald. On the drive home, late afternoon, I swerve a couple of times to avoid drunken revellers in leprechaun beards stumbling into traffic. These kids, fit and tanned, were as far removed from their counterparts on O'Connell Street as a Spring BreakMTV special is from The All Ireland Talent Show. I warmed up my sneery pen.
That night, knackered, I get an invite to a couple of drinks in a beachfront bar. It’s jammers, paddywhackery akimbo and west coast hard rock. My buddy introduces me to his cousin who has been here since he left UCD with a B Comm and now spends his days either playing beach volleyball or selling micro-processors.
The cousin in turn introduces me to his girlfriend and the group of girls they’re with. They’re only professional beach volleyball players. I step out of the circle for a minute and pinch my own butt as a reality check. I’m spending Paddy’s night drinking beer with six-foot tall Amazonians, pro-athletes who munch cheesy nachos between shots of Tullamore Dew. I get back to my new buddy’s girlfriend who turns out to be a psychotherapist. We exchange notes and she brings in her girlfriend who is a neurologist and we discuss various aspects of doctor/patient confidentiality issues.
Therapists, brain doctors, pro-ball babes, salty snacks and whiskey shots. I don’t know which way is up. My sneery pen wilts. That is the problem with being a cynic over here, at every turn you expect the cliché to live, but the cliché refuses to bend to my own personal convention.
Disneyland had to do it. I was in a state of dread on the trip there. Twelve hours of cheeriness in front of me, my wallet laid open at the Mouse’s mercy. On arrival, the parking attendant, after guiding us to the shuttle bus, wishes us a “magical day”. Lip sneer rises a couple of degrees, but due to respect for the kids’ level of excitement and awe, I button it.
We enter and behold. There it is, the castle towards the end of USA Avenue, sparkling and pink. It is the picture from the brochures, the Disney street festooned with smiling, happy healthy faces, kids posing on Snow White’s arm as Goofy bounds around after his own tail. It’s nearly that. The geography is the same, but the faces are heavier, sweatier. There is only one topic of conversation: the length of line.
To visit Disney is to queue. As you shuffle along through chain-guided tracks, you wait and you bide time. The kids climb on your legs and feet and you move en masse towards the manufactured couple of minutes of entertainment all the fuss is about. You shuffle to the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, the Indiana Jones ride, Winnie the Pooh, Splash Mountain, Alice in Wonderland. You shuffle and you try not to gripe that having dropped a mortgage payment to get in you shouldn’t have to shuffle.
Then the ride starts and you forget. Because the detail is astounding, the attention to the human desire to be scared and excited without ever slipping over into fear for personal safety is exact. By the time you empty out of the exit of one ride, you’re ready to shuffle once more for the next.
This can’t be right. The food must be atrocious and the staff all Unabombers in training behind their Big Brother-enforced smiles. We eat sandwiches, omelettes and pasta dishes of our choice without drama. I cast my eye for a potential disgruntled employee and spot a scowling giant emptying a bin, struggling under his uniform in the midday heat.
“Can you tell me where the nearest restroom is?” I ask, waiting for him to bark. Instead, he brightens and asks where I’m from before pointing me in the right direction, again wishing me a great day.
It dawns on me that I’m the cliché, the foreigner looking for cracks in the dream’s armour. Why bother? Even if you have a stick to poke it with, it seems better to stroke it, admire it, and maybe note the cracks as your fingers move over them.
abrophy@irishtimes.com