Field Notes on Magic

A report from the frontlines of Disney World parenting.

Andrew Boryga is a novelist who was born and raised in the Bronx but has called Miami home for the past decade. His debut novel Victim was published in 2024 and named a finalist for the Gotham Book Prize, a New York Times Editor’s Choice, and a best book of the year by NPR, the BBC and LitHub. His past writing has appeared in The New York Times, The New Yorker, and The Atlantic, among other outlets. He has also taught writing to elementary students, college students, and incarcerated men. He publishes a free, monthly Substack newsletter about his adventures in publishing called Dwell.

I vaguely remember my first time going to Disney World as a child. I was seven – older than my own son by two years, and four years older than my daughter. I lived in the Bronx, but my mom and my sisters and I were visiting my uncle and his kids in Miami, and I guess they decided it was time.

My mother was a single mom with three kids working as a public social worker, so she made our trip happen by sitting through a timeshare presentation that offered my uncle and her a hotel room and entry into Magic Kingdom.

I don’t remember anything about the park itself. I remember spending time with my cousins in that hotel in Orlando. I remember the four of us piling into a single bed, jumping off the walls, spending hours in the pool, hype because neither of us came from the sorts of families that did things like go to Disney World, or stay in hotels with pools.

My mother remembers more. A lot more. She remembers the rides I went on with her, the joy in my face, and all the pictures we took. She is disappointed that all of this is a blur to me, now, almost 30 years later. “We had so much fun.”

I wonder, as I enter my card details to pay for tickets and a hotel stay at Disney World for my own kids, if I’ll be in the same position as her decades from now. Will they remember this? What will their experience of this time-honored tradition be?

Probably very different from mine, I conclude.

After all, they won’t be staying at a hotel far from the park, they’ll be staying at the Grand Floridian, which is considered the most opulent of the eight luxury resorts Disney offers. They won’t go through the experience of driving into the park, hunting for parking, and trudging with a crowd along a scalding blacktop to get to the entrance. They’ll glide in on a clean monorail one short stop away, and slip into the park 30 minutes before anyone else is allowed to. They’ll get the deluxe-tier version of the trip I went on so many years ago – only fitting, seeing as I’ve used my talents, resilience, and luck to leap class boundaries like Superman and ensure they live the deluxe-tier version of the childhood that I experienced.

As I receive my confirmation email, my only hope is that all of these upgrades guarantee me what I’m really after: memories, magic.

#

Two days before our trip, my wife and I pour some wine, sit on the couch with tons of clean clothes to fold and dive into the world of YouTube Disney parent influencers who have created lucrative income streams by uploading tutorials with titles like “What I Wish I’d Known Before I Brought My Kid to Disney World” or “Genius Tips for Taking Toddlers to Disney World” or “An Idiot’s Guide to Disney World With Kids.”

These videos are not cinematic masterpieces. They are shot on phones attached to handheld tripods, and their principal stars are mid-30s tired parents with a penchant for Costco clothing and corny jokes. But they are extremely useful to over-achieving millennial parents like ourselves who want to optimize everything, including a trip to Disney World.

These influencers tell us which are the best rides to take our children on, and at what times of the day. They tell us the extra things we will need to buy – like a plastic cover for our stroller in case it rains, charging blocks for our phones in case they die, and comfortable shoes for all the walking. They give us tips on how to get our kids to nap at the halfway point of the day, where to take them if they’re feeling overstimulated, and, one influencer who I become fond of by the end of the night – a man who seems to enjoy being a Disney dad so much – shares a piece of wisdom that feels profound to me: Don’t try to do it all; remember why you came in the first place, to have fun.

#

The day we’re set to leave, we have packed, rounded up all the items the influencers told us we’ll need, and purchased snacks for the drive up to Orlando. It is a Friday so we send our kids to school with the intention of picking them up right after their lunch period, getting them changed out of their uniforms quickly, and hitting the road promptly at noon so we can make it to the resort and enjoy the property.

The kids are picked up when they’re supposed to be, but the rest of the plan crumbles. It is 1:30 p.m. when we finally hit the road.

I stare at the thick red line of traffic on my Google Maps, frustrated that my goal to make this trip perfect is already going South. I take a breath, and try to remind myself of the wise words of that influencer: Remember why you’re doing this.

#

When we arrive at the Grand Floridian Resort, I park under a canopy near the grand entrance of the colossal, Victorian, white-washed hotel. I notice a minivan parked in front of us, and the four people who hop out of it – a mom, a dad and two pre-teens, all decked out in Pirates of the Caribbean costumes. I look down at my plain t-shirt, and the clothes my kids wear, which are stained with snacks from the ride and don’t have a Disney character or a pair of Mickey ears in sight. Did we miss a memo?

My concern only heightens when we enter the main lobby of the resort and look up at a massive chandelier anchoring the center of it. The male staff wear cream shirts with light stripes, tucked into flowering pants and high socks and look like old-timey baseball players, while the women don long skirts and dresses with high collars, and puffed sleeves. A man in a tuxedo plays a grand piano. The families milling about in their Mickey ears, matching shirts, and Cinderella dresses seem like they’re attending a family reunion that I’m just crashing.

A cheery woman checking us in slips us some “1st Visit” badges, and I try to pin them on my children to give them something Disney related to wear – to make it clear to others that though we are inexperienced, that although I grew up poor and previously visited these hallowed grounds the discount immigrant way, times have changed and we do in fact belong. But my kids were feral from having been cooped up in the car for five hours so I gave up.

Outside, we pass aggressively manicured lawns, pristine white structures, more workers in costume wishing us “magical” stays, and smiles plastered across everyone’s faces. It is all beautiful, and yet I am reminded of first walking around my Ivy League college campus as a freshman scholarship kid, clocking all the otherworldly differences between that clean, lush campus and my block in the Bronx – feeling like an alien.

I feel better about everything once we reach our decadent room. It isn’t the beauty of the room that puts me at ease – the baby blue walls, the perfect beds, or the plush headrests – so much as my kid’s reaction to it all. They run inside, pull the curtains back, stare down at the gleaming pool below and exclaim, “Wooow.”

#

For dinner that night we go to 1900 Park Fare, a gorgeous buffet-style restaurant on the property, and one of a handful of restaurants on Disney properties that include visits to your table from actors who dress up as iconic Disney characters. We are promised visits from Aladdin, Cinderella, Mirabel from Encanto, and Princess Tiana from The Princess and The Frog.

Micheal, our waiter, an older, thin man with the air of someone who used to shoot heroin back in the day but lived to kick the habit and spin colorful, inappropriate tales to his grandchildren, deposits menus for drinks. “This isn’t Sea World,” he said. “If you don’t like it, don’t worry. We’ll get rid of it and get you something you do like.”

It was a long drive, so I order something laced with bourbon, while my wife orders a spicy paloma. I inspect the food and find an eclectic mix of dishes vaguely tied to the roots of the characters in attendance: Tikka masala and curry-roasted chicken for Prince Ali, spicy gumbo and soft cornbread for Tiana, golden tostones and rice and black beans for Mirabel, and, I guess, everything else for Cinderella. I sit down with a full plate and sip my strong bourbon and feel pretty good about the decision we’ve made to hastily book dinner here.

#

Prince Ali is the first to visit our table. He looks to be about 20 years old, olive complexion, tall and gangly, with the air of a frat boy who studies econ and has big plans to hit Wall Street post-grad. I whip out my phone to capture my kids’ reaction, but they could care less about his presence – neither of them are fans of his work. I feel bad for their iciness, and tell Ali, after my kids take half-hearted photos with him, that Aladdin was one of my favorite movies, while my beaming wife says Aladdin has the best Disney sound track.

Mirabel is next – a short, spunky, tan woman with thick framed glasses who looks and acts just like the character from Encanto. My daughter warms up to the woman quickly, while my son whines and says, “All the characters here are for girls!” My wife and Mirabel end up hitting it off the most, especially after my wife picks up the trace of a Colombian accent and Mirabel breaks character to ask where in Colombia my wife is from, and the two of them swap origin stories.

When Cinderella glides over, looking regal and distinguished, my daughter loses it. I’m talking mini-stars shooting out of her eyes, and a smile I wasn’t even aware her face could make. My son sucks his teeth. Cinderella tells my daughter about how excited she is for the ball she’s attending that night, and stands to do a little twirl. But my daughter only speaks Spanish and has no idea what this woman is saying. When Cinderella finishes my daughter says, “I want your dress.” Cinderella looks at my wife and I with a strained smile, then poses for a picture with my beaming little girl.

Princess Tiana is the grand finale. She gets a bit of love from my daughter, who likes The Princess and the Frog, but seems more interested in the french fries on her plate. My son is in the corner watching cartoons he’d demanded because he is “so bored.” He refuses to take a photo. I have a little notebook out, taking notes about everything – all the families eating this experience up as if it was the highlight of their lives – feeling a bit like an anthropologist. Tiana notices my notebook and assumes it is one of the Disney branded notebooks others have on their tables, which they use to gather signatures of each character. “Does somebody want me to sign their book?” she asks, so sure of herself that I didn’t have the heart to tell her, actually, no, it is weird to ask a person playing a fictional character to sign something in the signature of that fictional character who doesn’t even have a signature, much less formal documents to sign that require a signature because they’re not a real person and don’t live in the real world.

I hand over my notebook. The woman finds a clean page and signs “Princess Tiana” in nice script, and hands the notebook back with flair, as if she were Juan Soto signing a baseball he knows will end up encased in my home forever.

#

We woke up the next morning at 6:45. I am bloated and regret my decision to cap dinner off with two large chocolate chip cookies and a tall glass of milk. Nonetheless, I am a man on a mission to make this day magical. Within an hour an actual Disney miracle occurs and we leave the room on time. I push a double stroller packed to the brim with two children and all the accoutrements of a CVS.

At the Magic Kingdom entrance, attendants scan our mobile tickets, but for some reason we all have to place our thumbs on a scanner, too. As I enter the park and the attendant tells me to have a “magical day,” I find it more pressing to wonder what data my family has just given the Walt Disney Corporation and what they might do with it.

My conspiratorial thoughts evaporate when I lay eyes on Mickey’s Castle, which I realize at that moment is actually called Cinderella Castle. But I had already told my kids over and over that it was Mickey’s, so fuck it, this is my essay, and it’s Mickey’s. Up close, you can see the castle for what it is – an imitation. And yet, there is something momentous about being in its presence; the fact that it has been imprinted on the brains of millions of children watching the opening credits to their favorite Disney movies imbues it with some special significance. We take pictures in front of it, and within seconds my son says, “I’m tired of taking pictures.”

We hustle over to a ramp that leads to the rides, scanning our tickets yet again to indicate to the attendants that we are among the privileged who are allowed to enter this sacred space earlier than everyone else because we spent far more money to stay at a prized Disney resort. I feel a mix of pride and fraudulence – will I ever be comfortable in my skin as a class jumper? I don’t have time to answer this. We’re too busy making our way to the first ride, capitalizing on the park being so empty and quiet that we can hear all the mechanical movements of the animatronic characters and see their creepy eyes.

We are the first in line at Tomorrowland Speedway, a ride where you drive electric powered cars around a track and go about 10 miles an hour; a ride we chose first to please my son who is starting to get the vibe that “Disney is for girls.” We wait 20 minutes for the ride to open, and just as the little cars are prepared for us and my son gets giddy, my daughter looks at me and says, “I want to go home.”

#

Because we have the park to ourselves for a while, we run through rides like maniacs. We hit the Dumbo ride multiple times – the fiberglass elephants rising to a point in the sky just high enough to give my kids a thrill without scaring them. By the time we emerge from a couple of spins on Little Mermaid’s ride, the general admission crowd is in full force. The stroller parking area near the rides resembles mall parking lots, and parents whipping strollers speed up and cut each other off for spots.

We get stuck in a carousel vortex. After each ride, my son has a difficult time deciding on the next horse – he sits on one for a minute, then gets up quickly saying, “no, this one isn’t right” and repeats this over and over until the attendants running the ride shoot us daggers. At least he’s smiling.

While waiting in line for the Winnie the Pooh ride I watch my kids have a ball playing in multiple areas for them to touch shit, like interactive walls where you can move electronic honey out of the way to reveal Pooh or Tiger, and I realize the designers of Disney know their clientele better than crack dealers know feigns or Instagram knows teenage girls.

By 11 a.m. my under arms are damp and my feet hurt and I regret trying to look cute and wearing Air Maxes. We stop for a reprieve at Pinocchio’s Village Haus, decorated to look like what I imagine a beer hall might have looked like in the Middle Ages. Instead of belligerent drunks with swords, it is populated by sweaty people of all ages wearing Mickey ears. We order pizza and chicken tendies for the kids, I have a bomb buffalo pizza flatbread, and my wife has a sad Cesar salad that she instantly regrets ordering.

#

We wander around the engorged park, content and full. I can’t help but notice how international the entire crowd is. I overhear French, Italian, Castilian Spanish, and British and Aussie accents galore amidst the hum. Then, as the clock strikes 12:30, all of the colorful children who have gotten up early that morning and are now sufficiently cracked out on sugar and popcorn and soda and juice begin to throw unwarranted fits and dash off in random directions with crazed looks in their eyes. I watch as parents of all skin tones, native tongues, and nationalities collectively sigh, consider all they were sacrificing to make this trip possible and make their kids happy, angle their heads back toward the sky and briefly shut their eyes in defeat.

It doesn’t take long for my son to knock out in the stroller. But when it comes to fighting sleep, my daughter has the strongest chin of any child on earth. I try taking her on the People Mover – a slow little train in Tomorrowland that I surmise might lull her to sleep. Instead, she melts down in line. Halfway back to where my wife had posted up with the stroller, she nestles her little head into my shoulder, and I do a few laps around a restaurant, sweating under her 35-pound frame in the heat, until she finally gives in.

#

For some reason the initial marker of true success I had for this day wasn’t a feeling or a moment but a duration of time. My goal was for us to stay in the park until 6 p.m. but by 3 p.m. the prospect of reaching this goal looks unlikely.

As we search for another ride to get on, it is my son who looks me in the eyes and says, “Daddy, can we please go home.” I almost accepted defeat. But instead, we get on It’s a Small World, remembering the YouTube influencers telling us it is a nice, calm ride with AC – in other words, perfect for a moment just like this.

I decide halfway through the ride that it is my favorite one in the park. We sit in a large canoe that slowly weaves its way on shallow water through a series of cavernous rooms filled with miniature animatronic figurines playing music, dancing, and singing the iconic song, “it’s a small world after all,” over and over in their respective languages. Each section we cut through the center of is meant to represent cultures from across the world, and periodically we pass renderings of monuments like Big Ben, the Taj Mahal, the pyramids of Egypt or the Eiffel Tower to help orient us. It’s a long ride and the pace is slow enough that we can marvel at the craft of all the figurines, the oldest of which date back to the 1960s and I’m sure offend wide swaths of people daily.

Still, the message of global unity feels especially timely considering the fact that whenever I scan news headlines or open social media it seems society is on the verge of splitting at whatever flimsy seams remain to stop us from waging an all-out war against each other.

I find the very end of the ride – when all the colors are stripped away and the cultures and nations join together, dressed in white to sing the famous song one more time against a snowy backdrop – particularly poignant. I watch my daughter light up. I feel what she feels, too: oddly moved by these little mechanical devices, their herky-jerk motions, and their deceptively simple, yet powerful song.

#

As we lurch toward the late afternoon, the Disney Magic falls off a steep cliff. While watching Mickey and his friends put on a show in front of the big castle, Elsa from Frozen appears on stage and belts out a beautiful rendition of “Let it Go” that makes the hair on my arms tingle and moves me to sing along until my daughter looks at me sharply and says, “stop, dad.” When we hit the Jungle Cruise, another boat ride where a fake captain makes terrible jokes and points out animatronic animals along the way – crocodiles, elephants, gorillas, and snakes – my son doesn’t even grin. “These animals are not even real,” he says.

By 5:45 p.m. we buy the kids their promised souvenirs (bubble wands) and tap out. At just over 10 hours, 26,000 steps, and nearly a thousand dollars spent all in on the day between tickets, food, and everything else, I feel ambivalent. I wonder if I’ve accomplished my goal – and more so, if I’m even certain what my goal was to begin with.

#

I keep thinking about this as we hop on a ferry to take us across a vast man-made lake back to the Grand Floridian Resort. We sit in the very back of the ferry, in an uncovered area we have all to ourselves.

My wife and I cuddle and watch our kids as they look out at the water, staring at the hotel in the distance, chatting excitedly about their new toys and shooting bubbles into the blue sky. For the first time in perhaps their whole lives, they let us take a nice picture of the two of them. They genuinely hug each other, and in their smiles, I can see something beyond joy, something deeper that nearly moves me to tears.

Just looking at the picture after I take it, and knowing that I will always be able to look at it, and revisit it, and remember this little moment when they are this age and this innocent and this beautiful and this pure, makes all the time and energy and money feel worth it. Here, I realize, was what I had been searching for: Proof that we’d gone. Proof that we’d made memories. Proof that this little family of ours had experienced happiness together. I realize then that this is what those photos my mom has of my sisters and I signify to her, too. That despite all of our challenges, we made our way.

My son turns back around and I notice he has a pensive look as he stares out at the water. I think about my mother all those years ago, how she must have felt watching me. As my oldest child, I wonder how much of this trip he will remember. I want to know: How magical had this all been for him?

As the boat nears shore, he turns to me. “Hey, dad.”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, anything.”

“How come in all of the Disney movies we’ve watched, none of the characters ever go to the bathroom to do pee pee or poopy?”

My wife and I look at each other for a moment, then laugh. “That is a great question.”