Blue Bayou

Banjo strumming fills the night as flickering fireflies flit by. The rickety swamp shack is the last vestige of civilization, and the Spanish-style long boats sail silently into the misty blackness.

"Dead men tell no tales," the ghastly grim cairn warns, as the vessels crash one by one down into the sea cave below.

Of course, one can witness this spectacle from the safe and cozy confines of a candlelit bistro called the Blue Bayou. It's where my parents ate on their honeymoon. It is where I always wanted to eat every time I rode the Pirates of the Caribbean as a kid.

I never got to eat there, though I was taunted several times a year until I eventually moved away.

It's been nearly 10 years since my last visit to the Mouse. Odd, considering the frequency of my former visits. I suspect some has changed, but I am certain that I still know my way around.

I have been waiting, I suppose, until my kids can go. And now, that time may be here. The girl is up to her pigtails in princess paraphernalia. She knows their names, she knows their lines, she knows their songs.

She has started making the request.

So, perhaps, the next trip to California will include a trip to the park. She is three, however, and I must contain my expectations. After all, it is her turn now, and the visit will be all about her.

That probably means no nice dinner among the fireflies, no "yo ho ho," and no banjo music. Again, my dining desire will have to wait. It's worth it, to be sure, but perhaps, maybe, possibly someday, if I'm lucky and I hold my tongue just-so, then there might be a chance that I'll get to eat at the Blue Bayou. Hopefully, it won't suck.