Lisa’s Bus Tire Mickey Ears are entirely unintentional.

We had managed to make it to Walt Disney World with only four bags for three days. I had originally wanted to travel with a single bag. This idea was summarily dismissed as insanity. I may well have asked her to build a tower to the sun. She had a collection of items that must be on her at all times so large that I’m not even sure it’s quantifiable.

When I suggested that we try one checked bag, one carry-on, I was again shot down as a madman. That might be fine if we were transporting a few outfits and the necessary toiletries but if we were we might as well ride the rails as hoboes. No, instead we must transport the entirety of her vast makeup collection as well as several pairs of shoes, in addition to various pieces of clothing whose use was either improbable (two bathing suits, accompanied by the over-wear for the walk down to the pool and the different over-wear for the walk back, all for weather that was rainy and in the low- to mid-fifties) or illogical (I believe there was +5 Boots of Kicking somewhere in there). I countered again with three bags and this seemed to satisfy the requirements of her menagerie but for good measure she insisted on bringing her own carry-on “just because” despite the fact that my carry-on, which I didn’t want to bring in the first place, was filled with the vast bulk of one bulk and a DS lite.

This argument, thankfully, did not set the tone for the rest of the trip which, aside from the plane ride back and a few very minor spats here and there, was free from venomous hate.

Hit the jump for the rest.

The flight down was one of Lisa’s best, most likely because she was traveling on two perkasets and three bottles of fine airplane wine which would come back to haunt her later in the night. That story is for later, though.

Lisa celebrating on the trip down to Terminal B and the Magical Express

We arrived in Orlando International Airport on time and made our way down to Terminal B, the new residence of Disney’s Magical Express.

There was, as always, an insanely long line for the Value resorts and next to no one in line for anything else. In fact, our bus was entirely empty except for us.

Okay, that’s not entirely true. There was a nice elderly Asian couple in front of us watching a bootleg copy of Apocalypto on their laptop. It’s more fun to say that it was us alone, though.

Lisa noticed on our names on the Magical Express vouchers and realized that this was our first time returning as a married couple:

This isn’t entirely true as we returned to Walt Disney World at the end of our Honeymoon, but she said that didn’t count and I didn’t care enough to argue.

Our first and only stop was the Boardwalk Villas. We had been to the resort at least twice before (once when we bought into the Beach Club and once when we first met our wedding photographers) but this was our first time staying on the property. The check-in went as smoothly as it could have following a lengthy wait behind a woman who decided that 11:30 pm was the best time to make a stand about being mildly inconvenienced by something so trivial that I can’t even recall it. She huffed and puffed for a good 15 minutes until the night manager offered her some small token of appeasement upon which time she retired to her room to dream of naive bridge-crossing goats.

The most obvious benefit of staying at the Boardwalk, other than its close proximity to both EPCOT and MGM, is the titular Boardwalk. It’s themed to a turn-of-the-century Atlantic City boardwalk, free of the abundant medical waste and homeless that mark today’s AC. Our tight schedule and the limited hours of operation (what kind of Boardwalk closes at 10:30 pm? It’s not like it gets any less noisy once it shuts down.) meant that we were unable to partake in it.

We did, however, opt for a Boardwalk view and were well-rewarded.

If we were in early enough, we would almost certainly have been able to see the Illuminations fireworks over in EPCOT, but the ability to see Spaceship Earth at all times was worth the price of admission.

The night was still young and Lisa was desperate to spend it at either the Atlantic Dance Hall or Jellyrolls Dueling Piano Bar, both situated at the end of the Boardwalk, just a short walk down our hallway and down the stairs.

While standing in line to check in, the elderly asian couple standing in front of us informed us that there was a convention at the Boardwalk and most of its attendees were staying there. It was a financial planner convention and the Atlantic Dance Hall was a prime example of all the excitement that a Financial Planning convention can bring. The bar was surrounded by an impenetrable wall of business casual that even Jimmy Buffet would have a hard time taming. The dance floor was scattered loosely with half-hearted shuffling couples with loosened ties and costume jewelry. We made a hasty retreat to Jellyrolls.

I don’t know what I expect from a Dueling Piano Bar. I always convince myself that it’s a guaranteed good time. Perhaps I’m imagining the bar from Roger Rabbit, with Daffy and Donald playing so furiously that they resort to racial epithets in their duel. What it ends up being is variations on Billy Joel’s Piano Man for an entire night. There may be John Mellencamp, maybe some John Cougar, maybe even some John Cougar Mellencamp. There’s sure to be Neil Diamond. In other words, there’s nothing I want to hear. Even when they broke into Oasis’ Wonderwall, as close as Lisa has to an anthem for her younger days, it wasn’t enough to keep us around.

Our reluctance to stay was not only due to the awful music that was being played, that was only a small part of it that could be alleviated by the consumption of copious amounts of overpriced alcohol. It was mainly due to an intractable problem that has haunted nightlife since the dawn of time:

Old people dirty dancing.

I know that one day I might very well self-identify as an old person. I am also well aware that, through the magic of self-delusion, that day will most likely be quite far off, perhaps following my first shattered hip or the birth of my second grandchild. I understand that the acceptance that one’s younger, more vital and spry days are behind one’s self is a lengthy and difficult process. I am not, however, sympathetic when someone who shouldn’t be dancing has deluded themselves into thinking they should be.

Dancing is for the young. Furthermore, dancing is for the young and the in-shape. Dancing is also, for the most part, not for white people, but that’s a separate argument.

The couples dancing were neither young, nor were they fit.

There was one reasonably attractive woman that was dating, perhaps married to as a result of some tribal pact, a hobbit. He resembled Double Wide from Stroker and Hoop and this is more an insult to the fictional character than to the man himself. The other woman apparently spent her nights in a tanning coffin, giving her skin the appearance of a well-worn saddle. The road she had been down was not only hard but also overrun by starving, rabid wolves. Her beau was a squat, sweaty, middle-aged man with a buzzcut and a shirt unbuttoned in a manner that he may have thought conveyed a carefree attitude but instead was more of a way to showcase his pasty chest covered in stubbly, ingrown hair. All were sweating to the point it suggested a marathon in their recent past.

No matter what the song, they gyrated and dryhumped their way through it in a sticky, writhing mass where the various limbs and protrusions melded into one, as if they were Station in mid-transformation. I’ve never thought of the Allman Brothers’ Whipping Post as a song to grind to, but they certainly did. As they exchanged flopsweat, we slowly edged our way out.

The night, however, wasn’t over.

Lisa had consumed three Amaretto Sours during her time at Jellyrolls and this combined with the three bottles of wine and the perkaset to make for a huddled mass in her stomach yearning to be free.

At 3 AM, Lisa called me to the bathroom saying that she had a problem. This was an understatement.

She had been on the toilet, contemplating the nature of the universe, when the urge to vomit hit. Although she was on the toilet, she decided that the turn required to puke into it would take enough time that she may very well vomit on herself on the way.

Instead, she turned her head and threw up in the tub.

Not just any throw up, mind you, but the kind of projectile vomit reserved for sketch comedy shows, whose arc and reach resemble a fire hose more than something produced by the human body.

I walked in to a good 1/4″ of chunky, cherry-colored vomit filling the bathtub from end to end.

True to her neat nature, there wasn’t much spillage outside of the bath itself, but what had landed there was thick and viscous enough that it wasn’t going down the drain willingly. We (and I say “we” in the royal sense) were forced to sop the larger chunks up with a towel which we then placed in a plastic bag for some unfortunate maid to find when we left.

In retrospect, I should’ve left a bigger tip.