(NY Times) What I Learned Inside the N.B.A Bubble

By Sam Anderson

The moment I entered Walt Disney World, I felt extremely sad. I was driving alone in a hypersanitized rental car, wearing two masks and a pair of disposable gloves, with all the windows rolled down to blast out any lingering virus. Florida’s atmosphere was gushing in all over, swamping me with its jungly breath. The dashboard thermometer said 100 degrees. The freeway took me past multiple theme parks — SeaWorld and Universal Studios and a Bible-based attraction called The Holy Land Experience. At one point, I passed a fake volcano. Billboards advertised gun shows and hospitals and lawyers and Botox.

And then there they were: Mickey and Minnie Mouse, standing on either side of the road, making white-gloved gestures of welcome. A grand arch promised, in looping cursive script, that I had reached the place “Where Dreams Come True.”

Disney World, in normal times, is a sealed kingdom of childish joy. It promises frictionless fun to anyone who can afford the entrance fee. I had been there earlier this year with my family and, against my will, I loved it.

But now I was alone. Florida was a raging pandemic hot spot. The airplane to Orlando was nearly empty, as was the airport itself. For six months, my soul had been clenched in a fist of worry. I had stopped exercising and lost much of my hair; one of the arms of my glasses had snapped in half, but I never got them fixed, so now they tilted at crazy angles on my face. Disney World’s cheerful entrance felt like an exit for a road that had been closed for decades — the route to an old American fantasy that had permanently expired.