Traveling is like finally turning the page of a book, or taking the first step out of your comfort zone. It’s falling from reality into a glorious dream for several days and taking a break from normal. It’s going home with memories engraved in your mind and stories written in your heart. It’s a change of scenery, with everything that consumes you stripped away, and only the true feelings left. You tend to think more and write often, because your living a bit more real.
Going to Disney is exceptionally memorable and more lovely. It’s the place that holds most of my childhood, and it reminds me of the dreams I had when I was four and walked the same streets. The nostalgia that comes when remembering childhood is the sort that aches in all the good ways. It’s like tasting a drink you haven’t had in years, or reading a book you read in 1st grade, or smelling lotion that you haven’t in a while. It brings something back, and it hurts because you want to go back, but it’s also wonderful because you remember something beautiful. Disney was full of those moments for me, and I was very joyful all the way through.
When I think back: I want to remember the way the sunrise looked when we were on the plane, scribbling notes on spare paper about people-watching while sitting in the airport, the lights and dancing at night in Disney, the little one’s reaction to it all, the French restaurant and the way food tasted, the dark sky with fireworks etched across the darkness, laughing so hard at Donald Duck jokes, the whole enjoying waffle thing, going to castles, feeling so happy I could fly, and all the inside jokes I still laugh at as I write.
It was good. Traveling’s good. I shall remember it.
Second post on the other part of the trip soon.