I love staying in Fort Wilderness. I truly do. Checking-in, however, is a whole ‘nuther ballgame …
1985: After two short, introductory trips to WDW by just the two of us, I began planning months in advance for the first truly on-site visit for my husband, my parents and me. My father had just retired and he and my mother had very recently purchased an RV after years of vacationing across the country in a succession of ever-longer and more curve-defiant recreational trailers. And it rapidly became apparent that the principal consideration as I put together ten days in Fort Wilderness would be the care and feeding of an exceedingly sanitary and sensitive motor home and the mandatory deployment of its awesome awning.
Because, my father had begun to say at every opportunity, it was absolutely critical that there be room on our campsite to ‘put out the awning’. There was, it would seem, no reason
at all to travel a thousand miles to the rumored-to-be
Happiest Place On Earth if he couldn’t fully extend the mystical, magical canopy. Evidently, the RV and its master and mistress were incapable of functioning in a state of rest unless that ridiculously-expensive rectangle was properly taunt. Might as well stay home and kick the equally ridiculously-expensive tires, don’t you know.
Note: It is my firm belief that the primary reason that campers camp their way through their leisure lives is their unwholesome fascination with process and tyranny. That, and their astounding prissiness. Example: Mother often remarked to rather startled bystanders that, when traipsing merrily about the countryside,
she ‘certainly did
not sleep in beds previously occupied by strangers’. The clear implication being that, if her listeners were among the unfortunates reduced to transient slumbering in commercial chambers … Well, bless their hearts!
So, budding little Disney aficionado that I thought myself to be, in every correspondence – oral and written – and there were many of them - with WDW regarding our impending arrival, I dutifully made only the
one permitted request: ‘Please’, I implored – furnishing in every instance the exact dimensions of the blasted thing – ‘Please make certain that we are assigned a site large enough for my father’s awning. Pleeeze!’
And, of course, when we arrived in the dead of the night - Note: it is considered terribly impolite to disturb a sleeping campground - and pulled in as silently as possible and my parents had done all of those things that must be done to complete that sacred ritual - including unhitching the little VW that they always pulled along for side-trips - and I saw the set of my father’s jaw and the tremble of my mother’s chin, I knew …!
I grabbed the keys to the VW and told my father to go get in. And I’ve tried, unsuccessfully, for all these years since to remember that tone of my voice, because for the first and only time in my life, my father did what
I asked
him to do.
Now, I do not drive a stick-shift well. So, I’m certain that the
rest of the campground woke up as we made our grinding and thrashing way to the office.
I slammed one door shut. I slammed through the next. ‘Why', I demanded in that same pater-mobilizing voice, ‘can’t my poor, exhausted, fragile and absolutely impossible father get his blasted awning out?’. ‘What’, they said, innocently, ‘are you talking about’. ‘The awning!', I screeched. ‘The awning! That precious awning that I’ve been telling you people about for months. The one prominently mentioned in every scrap of paper you have about our reservation!’ ‘Awning?', they feinted.
‘Call a manager’, I growled. ‘Heck, call Eisner, if you must! But, in the end, you are going to take us to an awning-lovin' patch of moonlit ground … tonight!’, I roared (stretching menacingly to my full 4 feet and 11 inches of imposing stature).
And I’ve often wondered if they might have honestly thought that the miniature madwoman before them actually knew the Disney CEO. However, pointing out the ungodly - for a righteous campground - hour, ‘Would the morning do?’, they asked. ‘No, it won’t', I replied (by then my father had left to scrunch down as far as humanly possible into the VW’s upholstery), ‘No’ (and by now I was blubbering fairly copiously), ‘it just won’t’.
And that is how it came to be that a small caravan of golf cart, motor home and brilliant German engineering made its way through grumbling pathways to a preferred site with a lovely view of the lake and a marvelously-broad expanse just beggin’ for an awning to fill it. And we all lived happily ever-ten-days-after.
1986: Back in Fort Wilderness the following year, all went beyond well. So far beyond well, in fact, that some of the visitors to Magic Kingdom on a certain day could be heard wondering if our family might, indeed, know Eisner. But that’s another story …
2003: I had no Fort Wilderness plans.
Following stays at several other WDW resorts, this was to be the
Grand Visit. Eleven days at The Grand Floridian. The Platinum - or whatever they were calling the year’s most exorbitant package - Plan. Paid in full.
But the gods
will have their way with those who get too big for their britches and so, one fine day, in one fine conversation with Concierge Services, I casually mentioned smoking on our room’s guaranteed-to-be-lovely balcony. ‘Oh, no’, she said, aghast. ‘You can’t do that!’
‘But’, I sputtered, ‘I smoked on the balcony at the Boardwalk Villas without any issues. So, if one can smoke on those balconies, then why not on The Grand Floridian balconies?’
‘Fire codes’, she said sternly. ‘They can be different at various resorts. Something to do with the roofs, I think’, she said. ‘Piffle!', I said. ‘I’ll go to back to The Boardwalk!' But, of course, when I called the hotel several days later to confirm that it was still permissible to smoke on their balconies, it wasn’t. And I couldn’t. And so I wouldn’t. Go back to The Boardwalk, that is.
Nor, after prolonged conversations and several made-to-be-unmade reservations, would I go to The Polynesian, or to The Beach or Yacht Clubs, or to The Wilderness Lodge - almost made it there, until someone checked the roof for the nefarious code - or to The Animal Kingdom Lodge, or even to the concrete and glass Contemporary.
But, I could go back to Fort Wilderness. To a cute - presumably asbestos-roofed - little cabin with a wonderfully-welcoming - bring-your-own-ashtray - deck. Parking at the door for our golf cart and car. And the all-paid-for Platinum Plan.
There were no actual ‘Smoking’ cabins still available, but, as I explained, I didn’t need one. My daughter wouldn’t permit me to smoke inside even if I wanted to. And I didn’t want to. So, despite the circuitous and rather aggravating route required to reach home, I was, once again, a pretty happy camper. Until …
The phone call to inform me that I couldn’t have my all-paid-for Platinum Plan. ‘Fort Wilderness simply can’t afford you Platinum Service’, he intoned. ‘There would be no Nightly Turn-Down, or Chocolates, or Room Service, or Club Amenities, or Itinerary Planning, or ….’
‘I don’t care’, I said (as calmly as possible), 'about any of it other than Itinerary Planning and Concierge Services during our stay. And you certainly
can do that! There actually
are phones in Fort Wilderness and on my own and on my daughter’s persons. And you, or some other officious soul, already has my lists and so I expect all of my dining, shows, cruises and recreation to be booked and to be able to call
the number that I already have for any assistance that I might need before or during my stay in Fort Wilderness. Have a magical day.’ And I hung up.
And darned if they couldn’t do every last bit of that …
So, I was actually, once again, a pretty happy camper. Until …
We arrived a bit late again. And when my daughter went in to pick up our keys and cart, I thought it was taking far longer than it should. So, I went in. To find my daughter crying.
Now, she doesn’t blubber as I do. She cries silently. And rarely. But she had done all of the driving for the past two days and now she was crying so loudly that I could actually hear her if I listened carefully. And she was crying, it seemed, because they had no ‘Smoking’ cabins available. And, given that I had so strenuously demanded one - at this point, I’ll remind you, gentle reader, of my earlier remarks concerning
that - they felt that, in fairness to their non-smoking guests, they could not offer me a Non-Smoking cabin unless I paid the assessment for my fully-expected non-compliance with the no-smoking-inside dictum …
in advance of my eagerly-anticipated transgressions.
I sent my daughter to our now-Detroit, USA car. I called
the number and briefly, but colorfully, explained my uncomfortable circumstances and - I thought - my quite justifiable reluctance, for the moment, to pay anyone Disney any other Dollar.
But, in 2003, I didn't mention Michael Eisner.
And then I let their people talk to their people. And, very shortly, a caravan of two – golf cart and car – wound their way to another –
really – wonderful stay in Fort Wilderness.
2016: We’re headed once again to The Beach Club. No Awning. No Smoking. No Platinum Plan. No Fort Wilderness, perhaps. And, perhaps, I won’t ever be rude in WDW again.
