Journey To Another World

April 18, 2014

The early blue sky, like a tropical ocean, sat above our heads, with an enormous orange ball of fire smiling down on us. The air was fresh and crisp and the slight chill made the hairs on my arms stand up straight like little soldiers.  With our rucksacks on over one shoulder, we all herded on like cattle, as we got checked for sharp objects. There is always someone with something non-dangerous who gets stopped. This time, an embarrassed, flustered, middle aged mother, who stood patiently as the men emptied the contents of her tiny handbag, only to find that the most dangerous object was a tampon. Meanwhile her two young children created havoc play fighting further up the queue, resulting in the poor lady having to hastily pull them apart.

          Once through, everyone split off in different directions but primarily all heading for the same destination. As we approached, I rummaged through my pockets to find my ticket. First I found an old lolly stick, which kept sticking to my fingers as I delved in. Then, a small folded leaflet telling me why Jesus was my saviour lay at the bottom of my coat's pouch. At last, I finally found what I had been looking for. My yellow printed ticket with a cartoon dog on. I grasped it in my hand so tightly (for fear of losing before I even reached the gates) that I almost gave myself a paper cut on the palm of my hand. Both eager and exhausted, running on no sleep for thirty hours, we stepped closer to the entrance. From where we stood, all we could see was the busy crowd ahead and green metal booths that had metal turnstiles letting people through one at a time. There was a glimpse of colour beyond this, resembling our destination.  The workers, standing at the front of the booths, were dressed in navy cloaks, with matching skirts or trousers. They welcomed people with their sleepy smiles, keeping up the facade that they were full of life, when in fact they probably wanted to collapse on a chair. To be honest, so did I, but the excitement was over powering me. Once we handed our tickets in, we waltzed through the gates and, finally, we were there.
          As the entrance welcomed us, we felt relieved as if we were home once again. We fitted in here as we were big kids at heart. With gigantic grins stretched across our faces, we matched on. The sound of children laughing and gasping in astonishment filled our ears with glee. The distant but fast approaching familiar music created the highest level of nostalgia.  I breathed in the air, as if to take it all in, closing my eyes for a second. Heaven. Suddenly I was brought out of my trance by something soft hitting my head. A toddler scurrying past with a giant balloon in the shape of a mouse, had not been paying much attention to where he was going, and then his mother had sharply told him off.
          Once inside my senses were invited in by various wonders. The sweet subtle smell of sugary, melted, sticky popcorn throttled my nostrils, until I couldn't help but crave some. There was fuss just a few metres away from the Popcorn stand where a young boy had accidentally dropped his popcorn and was desperately trying to scoop it back up, whilst his mother noticed the stares and encouraged him to leave it and promised him some more later.  We delved in further and further into the busy streets that had been created for this place. Ice cream parlours, gift shops, restaurants and more were on both sides. Looking around I could see that we were not alone, there were hundreds of adults also enjoying the atmosphere; though I'm sure some would deny, their guilty faces told all.

           Even though being an adult, I had never felt such happiness, and as silly or childish as it seems, I think Disneyland was a place of escape. It's a place you can escape the stresses of reality and run to. I had reached a point in life where I needed to escape or at least hide for a bit and relax. Disneyland did this for me. For a moment in time, I was able to forget. And to me, I felt at home, in a place full of dreamers. 

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