Sotto alla Corona
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Who said that Philadelphia cream cheese and jam go well together?
To me it sucks.
Just something I tried recently with great disgust. But without digressing, let me sink to my knees in this week’s post.
As I mentioned in my previous post, in addition to two weeks in Rome, we spent a couple of days at Disneyland Paris.
I honestly would have spared myself the drama, moreover, G is just two years old and couldn’t care less about the difference between Disneyland and home.
No, ok well, this is plain bullshit.
The truth is that I’ve always tried to avoid at all costs to go to any place which did not offer the opportunity to cook for G, since he is a very fussy eater and not satisfiable with a piece of pizza or a sandwich.
But I bowed to the pressure from my spouse.
"Come on! You will see that we will have fun! How complicated can ever be to spend a night in a hotel? You carry on as if I’m dragging you both to purgatory... It’s a five star hotel for fuck’s sake! "He says,
"But can I make him a bit of soup in the hotel? Do you think they’ll provide me with a camping stove in the room and pass me a little tin pan as well? No, because in that case we are safe... "I replied sarcastically.
Obviously the result of our conversation was as follows: I am paranoid and preventing the family from spending two unforgettable days at Disneyland. I'm selfish, I lack imagination and spirit of adventure. Two days at the hotel are not the end of the world, maybe two days without cooked meals would do well to G, just to give him the chance to try new things.
I am a hysterical faggot and I must die....
No, ok well, this one I added myself, but we would have got there.
So I spun on to my heels and went to pack with my heart in my mouth and the secret intention to bring along the kitchen, just in case.
Gabriel is a treasure, he is lively, intelligent and affectionate, but in terms of eating, he makes me shit blood.
Yes, he eats, but at what cost!
Usually lunchtime or dinnertime at our house sees the following set-up: the table is laid, Gabriel with a bib, sitting down, all smiles and with his little plate in front of him, Steven sitting down without a bib and with his plate in front of him, and then there is me, with galoshes, raincoat, the flamethrower, the dwarf acrobatic team, the tightrope walkers, the bearded women, the whip and a spoon full of food in my hand.
"Darling! Darling look at Papa! Watch how I do ..... Ooooops! ".... Nothing.
"Love! Sweetiecake, look at how cute Thomas the train is... Open your fucking mouth ..... AAAmmmmmmm ...." ... Nothing.
"Darling, look! Papa pours kerosene all over and sets fire to himself! Look darling! Look at that flame!!! WWWHOOOOOMMMMM! Open your mouth now..... Yeeessss!!! Well done!!!!!”
Bucket of water to extinguish my hair still on fire and start all over again. Cough... Cough....
In short, Gabriel is a big job to feed, and I can do it at my house or my parents' house (where usually I leave the burden to my mother and her circus freaks....).
But can you see me performing my routine at the restaurant of a luxury hotel?
In any case we went. As a precaution I had also prepared mini sandwiches with ham and Philadelphia cheese spread, several jars of yogurt, mini cheeses, perfect to be transported and consumed 'on the go' and the inevitable Plasmons buscuits. All stuff easily administered to the infant in case of his refusal of food that I offered.
The journey of two and a half hours by train did not bother me. It was not a regular train, full of businessmen in suits and ties, plastered to their Blackberries, that give you dirty looks every time the little one whines.
It was a Disney train! Made for Disneyland and full of children in various states of euphoria and dishevelment.
For once, I wouldn’t be ashamed.
In general I can say that I did not regret having gone. Disneyland is truly a magical place, but the hotel, let me tell you, the Disneyland Hotel can be avoided.
For goodness sake, the structure is magnificent, the rooms are luxurious enough for a five-star, and it’s 10 meters from the park entrance.
The service however is another kettle of fish and it is curious that in a hotel designed around the fantasies of children (even the wallpaper is covered with Disney characters), the director of check-in looks like she uses them as fertilizer.
Snobbery aside, I say only this: when as a customer I ask for something and you make me feel as if I am breaking your balls, well, dear director, I don’t think you are very much ‘5 stars’.
At best you are a French bitch, and the five stars you can stick them up your derrière ...
And merci beaucoup, dickhead.
You've been warned.
There were comical moments.
The same evening at dinner, for example, we were at the main hotel restaurant, famous among the kids for the presence of various Disney characters around the tables.
I was performing the usual somersaults to make Gabriel eat a forkful of pasta and all my attempts were sabotaged by Donald once, then by Goofy, then by Mickey Mouse and Pluto....
Each time one of them was in the room, I had to disassemble the highchair, remove Gabriel’s bib and set him up for the photo with the character of the moment.
Obvious that in the end, when I was almost able to put a piece of ham in his mouth, and Chip 'n' Dale trotted in, I had to burst in my native language, "Hey what the fuck! Are you doing it on purpose? Can I feed this little one in peace?"And the lady at the next table pissed herself with laughter because, of course, she was Italian and understood everything.....
"Ah, but we don’t come here to eat!” She said all perky, with her Venetian accent and her two daughters, now teenagers and autonomous ...
"Really? But I'm here to do the circus didn’t you know? What did you think? Disney pays me as well you know? Do you want to see how I set fire to myself in the vain attempt to feed my child? Ugly-fucking-meddling-bitch? EEHHH?? "
No, seriously ... I just smiled at her, cursing between my teeth.
When I am on 'feeding-mode' I am a war machine. Leave me alone to concentrate.
And you, Donald! Fuck off to the other side of the room and don’t distract him!! I'll call you when I’m done, you dick!
But what can I do? Kids at this age are fickle in what they like/dislike and a couple of days on yogurt alone would have meant seeing him shrivel up to the size of a raisin... If G does not eat, I'm not comfortable, it's always been so and maintaining a healthy body weight, which is right for his age, it’s the result of the perseverance of a papa who plays dice with his mental health and loses each time.
And to think that when I was a child I would’ve eaten even stones.
Ah bless those parents who bring up their children with rubbish! Pizza, chips, chocolate, sweets ... By wanting to be picky and do things right, I shot myself in the foot with a rocket launcher.
Next life I won’t be fooled.
Complaints aside (I'm always breaking your balls, sorry ...), the rest of the stay was a jumble of rides, queues and an hallucinatory shopping spree, but even among the thickest fray (like in the evening during the parade ... ), the carefree and festive atmosphere never gave up to the stress, and the most obvious thing in this experience is that the most beautiful, smiling and capricious kids in Disneyland are the adults.
I saw mothers arguing with their daughters because the latter were twatted by the fatigue of walking around and queuing for every ride, but the mothers were still on a high and wanted to go at all costs to the Indiana Jones roller coaster, or to have tea in 'Cinderella’s Hut ', or to go to the ' Stromboli’s Tavern ' to see all the hot Disney Princes strip down to their tiny, lycra underwear and flex their oiled abdominals.
No, this is a lie .... But it would be good no?
And then outside, while you line up, we could have Cruella De Vil (another alcoholic bitch with the liver and the stubble of an old sailor), walking around with trays of cocktails....
And then we had a gorgeous late-summer sun... The music of carousels laden with countless children, the smell of cotton candy and the secluded quiet corners, to sit and watch everything from the outside, like a giant kaleidoscope, always in motion.
I’m glad to say that, apart from my skepticism and my paranoia of overprotective parent, Disneyland won, and left a little stardust on my hair. Or what's left of it (the hair I mean...).
After two days, we returned home with every character ever conceived by Walt Disney, mugs, t-shirts, stuffed animals, toys. Basically now I might even open a small branch of Disneyland here in Chelsea, where I would be the only ride.
"The man who binds you to the high-chair and sets fire to himself to make you eat."