Cinderella’s Royal Table, Walt Disney World, Magic Kingdom

Inside the castle, Cinderella appeared. She was beautiful and grand in her customary blue gown and dark choker. Her radiant, golden hair was wound-up tightly in a bun, and it was all held in place by a matching headband. She floated about, careful not to leave her secure place at the front of the dining room. Cinderella looked confident and comfortable; she wasn’t wearing a mask. Within the constant air of uncertainty that has plagued us all, it was nice to see her warm gestures, smiling, and turning her wrists gracefully, this way and that. 

The server—a senior from Georgia was perfect—witty and quick. He put us at ease. “I’ll take the lamb,” I said. 

“You know,” he replied, “that’s not a baa-aad choice.” My daughter laughed. And he kept her laughing throughout dinner, always addressing her as “princess,” underscoring the notion that catering to children is still near and dear to Disney’s heart. Disney is at its strongest in these instances, reassuring parents that this was a trip worthwhile, joyful, memorable. 

My meal was good—a braised lamb shank with Cannellini ragout—on a generic level. The leg tasted fine, but seemed uninteresting and tame. My wife had the beef tenderloin with vegetable and mashed potatoes. It, too, was good (because it’s a filet) but nothing remarkable. Our daughter had the mac and cheese. 

I looked about the rococo interior of the castle—the stone staircase, the vaulted ceiling, suits of armor, the grand fireplace—and could not help but feel nostalgic. The “magic,” as they say, was still here. I had wondered whether or not I would enjoy Disney as much as I had in times passed, with one difference being that I’m now sharing this experience with my 10-year-old daughter—she’s old enough to remember this trip and that makes it extra special. The other difference is Covid. 

The new way of taking pics with a Disney Princess is that, firstly, you cannot stand with the princess. Secondly, you must wear a mask. The princess must be safely distanced, corralled within a small, fenced-in area, perhaps, or standing on a balcony above the crowd. We snap a photo by aligning their princess and ours—they are “next-to” each other only by perspective. 

Toward the end of the trip, I realized that our daughter is wearing a mask in nearly every pic. Suddenly the photos become less cheerful, less bright. Instead, they seem poignant, even haunting—they will forever be a record of the reality that is the Covid era.