Minutes past eight in the morning at Universal Studios’ Wizarding World of Harry Potter Theme Park on Christmas, I find myself leaping a turnstile, long lines already snaking behind me, hoards of prepubescent children stampeding before me. We’re all heading to the same place in the distance, towards tall, weathered spires, giant archways—Hogwarts Castle. As I am jostled through griffin-adorned gates, a magical, multi-million-dollar construction unfolds before me. I walk past Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, where a station guard with a horrendously false English accent salutes me from the Hogwarts Express locomotive.
Here is Ollivander’s; Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes; Gladrags Wizard Wear, its window displays brimming messily with house robes and scarves. The Florida sun is blazing, but the shop rooftops are caked in plastic snow and dripping with icicles. In a monumental effort to keep my excitement in check, I remind myself that amusement parks are tacky, that I am 22 and have read books far superior to the Potter series, and that whenever I maddeningly type away at my thesis in my dorm room, the incantation, “Accio books from Widener!” has never delivered.
As cynical as I try to be, I find most of the souvenirs at the park irresistible. For many of the children there on Christmas Day, the expensive wands and stuffed snowy owl puppets serve as validation that they belong to a wizard’s world, or at least as evidence that they were among the lucky few (millions) to witness such a place. For me, it’s the utter simplicity of character and qualities: by wearing a Ravenclaw scarf (the store was out of them; I was out of luck), I assure myself that I am intelligent, by wearing a Gryffindor scarf, I define myself as loyal and brave. A Slytherin scarf proves the wearer wickedly ambitious.
At the start of January, I slog back to my college room and my thesis, battling unshoveled snow and unsalted sidewalks, wrap a Hufflepuff scarf around my neck, and start my work the Muggle way.
