In these harrowing times, an escapist fantasia turns out to be just what the doctor orderedGenevieve Carbery at Disneyland Paris: 'Slowly and joyously I became Disneyfied.' Photographs: Getty Images Mon Jun 22 2026 - 05:58 • 4 MIN READThe plan was simple. Show my children the real Paris. In my mademoiselle era I had dreamed in its little cafes, peered at caricature artists on Montmartre’s cobbled streets with the accordion-sounds of the 2001 Amélie soundtrack running through my head.Now back as a madame, I would bring my boys to peer in the patisserie windows, climb the Eiffel Tower’s wrought-iron stairs and sail wooden boats in the breeze at Jardin du Luxembourg. And then I would tack on a quick two-day trip to Disneyland, purely for the sake of entertainment rather than culture. Disneyland was not the real Paris, after all. Far from it. In my mind, the only imprint the theme park would leave would be on my pocket. So after five days of packing in every main Paris sight, I walked heavily towards Disney’s pretty pink entrance. My newly minted Francophile eyes felt offended at every turn: The fake “main street”, the saccharin smiles of “cast members”, the overpriced Mickey Mouse cookies, the crowds dressed in garish Disney gear. And the happy music piped on every street corner. “What’s so wrong with silence?” I asked.But going to Disneyland has echoes of becoming a parent for the first time. There’s the metamorphosis that takes place. The slow reluctant acceptance that the rules of the game have changed. Slowly and joyously I became Disneyfied. It may have been the It’s a Small World ride where I started to get it. A gentle trip on a little boat through the world with all the political complexity of a Peppa Pig episode. There were hundreds of marionettes moving and singing “It’s a small world” in many languages. Visitors at the Sleeping Beauty-inspired castle at Disneyland Paris. Photograph: Ian Langsdon/AFP via Getty That morning a notification on my phone told me Donald Trump had threatened to obliterate a whole civilisation. Perhaps the child in me needed the comforting fantasy of a simple Earth of love, peace and unity. But it hit my gut and I began to melt. More of my Amélie-style notions were shed on day two. After my night in a cowboy-themed hotel, I donned a Minnie Mouse headband and grabbed a McMuffin for breakfast on the way to the park. I had picked a busy weekend for Disney. The new World of Frozen opened with fanfare in the adjacent Disney Adventure World Park just days before my arrival. The influencers were gushing in force across my algorithm. The Insta reels of crowds running for the Frozen Ever After ride gave me that feeling of being caught in traffic from a concert I wasn’t attending. The park was full of little girls in polyester Elsa dresses. As the mother of two adrenaline-junkie boys I had no intention of queuing for two hours to see Frozen. We were there for the Pixar and Avengers sections.Then en route to the Avengers Flight Force it emerged in the distance, the snowcapped North Mountain where Elsa made her ice palace. In front of it sat the peaceful village of Arandelle. “Just a quick look” before the Avengers ride that goes from 0-92km per hour in three seconds, I heard myself whisper. The colourful wooden buildings of the fictional village, modelled on the Nordic city of Bergen, are exquisite. Its impact so calming, I was unfazed by the 50 minute queue-timer for the ride. World of Frozen at Disneyland Paris. Photograph: Aurore Marechal/Getty Images The Frozen ride was a bombardment for the senses: lights, smoke, music, drama. The pinnacle was Elsa’s ice palace, sending me backwards down a drop at speed, hands in the air, singing. And let it go I did. It left me, sitting in the boat at the end of the ride, like Olaf the snowman in summer, a puddle (of tears). Saying “Again, again”.I was fully imbued with Disney “magic” as we raced from ride to ride until nightfall. After the very last rollercoaster, and about 10 pleas of “one more ride, please”, we wove hand-in-hand through the park. I looked up at the sky and thought, wow, don’t they make the stars look so real here. Dear reader, it was the real stars and the real sky. A sign to leave, if there ever was one. We caught our late regional train to a non-Disney hotel for our last night. As we exited the suburban station, several passengers crowded behind so they could get through the barriers without tickets. The street outside was dimly lit and empty. The only “characters” here were of the shifty type. But for our chain hotel, the buildings all around were derelict. “Quickly boys. Walk in a straight line,” I barked, on high alert. We were no longer floating through the charming Rue Montorgueil or skipping down Disney’s central plaza. This was not the Paris of either Amélie or Emily. It led me to wonder: Was this suburb more like the “real Paris” than the tourist hotspots I had visited? Disneyland Paris is clearly not reality, but is the centre of Paris in some ways a distortion too? Are both places their own kinds of fantasies, shielding their visitors from the gritty realities of life? Like Amélie, Emily, Anna and Elsa, they represent a beautiful idea. And I am already plotting, and saving, for my return. IN THIS SECTION