The days run longer. There are a lot more thrill rides. Disney's gotten great with airport pickups, packaging, and all that. Very large touring groups are almost as common as four or five person families. You cannot walk twenty feet without passing a new shop. The same five pieces of identical cheap overseas merchandises are everywhere (possibly even in the room minibars by now). Anything eaten in park that isn't fast food probably needs to be reserved months in advance (and may soon require the aid of notary public). No resort pool is deeper than a mouse standing on the shoulders of another, somewhat shorter mouse. They've kept ride lines reasonably in check but because there are sixty bajillion onsite rooms now, strolling Main Street or the World Showcase is an exercise in Tokyo rush hour crowd simulation fantasy. The chances of running across either a teenager in extremely short pants marked "Juicy" or a bearded man in a T-shirt that is promising to kill you if you but offend his sensibilities seem much greater now than they did in the seventies. Attached to most of the resorts is a timeshare development. Attached to each of the timeshare developments is a resort. Around the circumfrence of your in-room coomode seating are the words "Disney's The Toilet: The Official Restroom Peripheral Of The Blockbuster Movie". Coca Cola snipers will execute you from the top of Cinderella's Castle if you attempt to bring a Pepsi onto the premises or dare to ask a CM "where the water fountains are". Magical express buses now prowl the Florida highways in such numbers that if they become sentient, we are doomed as a species. Cast Members who feel up to smiling are now officially rarer than green vegetables.
But the ghosts still follow you home, the prices are high, kids are still wailing or smiling and it remains a small world, after all.
