Disneyland Hotel, Paris review: heaven for seven year olds and fashion editors alike
When I say I’m taking my seven year old daughter to Disneyland there’s usually two reactions: either abject horror or bemused sighs of what a nice parent I am. It might seem off-brand for a fashion editor, but I adore Disney. I love the naff kitschiness, the inane tones of It’s a Small World, the implication that nothing bad could ever happen, the pure homely, apple-pie weirdness of it all.
The last time I came to Disneyland Paris was the early Nineties. We stayed at the Davy Crockett themed hotel, which was essentially caravans covered in plastic logs cosplaying as cabins in the woods. I adored it. It remains a childhood highlight, a strange sort of magic of scream-inducing thrills, sugar highs and unfathomable excitement over people dressed up as cartoon characters.
I’ve been waiting until my daughter was old enough so that she could remember it, and be tall enough to get on the good rides.
We started our trip with a couple of days in Paris, in theory we were going up the Eiffel Tower and seeing all the sights the City of Lights has to offer.
