Disney’s new Animation-themed resort reflects success of two recent hotel trends

by Leigh Caldwell on

A 35-foot-tall model of King Triton, the patriarch in Disney’s “The Little Mermaid,” will be the centerpiece of the new Disney’s Art of Animation Resort at Walt Disney World.

The 2,000-room hotel will have four wings, themed around four Disney movies that have become new classics over the past 20 years: “The Little Mermaid,” “The Lion King.” Finding Nemo,” and “Cars.”

The Art of Animation Resort demonstrates the success of Disney’s recent experiments with two different hotel trends, family suites and specially themed rooms.

At Disney’s All-Star Music Resort, the company converted rooms into 192 family suites in 2006. The rooms include both a living room and a bedroom and sleep up to six, thanks to a sleeper sofa and a chair and ottoman that each convert to a twin bed in the living room.

Disney has always had suites in its higher end “Deluxe” hotels, but the All-Star Music suites and the new suites at Art of Animation will be in Disney’s “Value” hotel category. Value resorts have smaller, motel-style rooms, but they still incorporate that magical Disney theming in over-the-top public areas, like swimming pools and lobbies.

Rates at Disney’s value resorts often rival off-site hotel prices. Regular hotel rooms that sleep up to four at value resorts currently start at $82 per night. The current family suites start at $190.

“This resort was designed with the needs of families in mind, as we continue the Disney tradition of providing a great guest experience for every taste and budget,” said Eric Jacobson, senior vice president of Disney Imagineering. In 2008, Disney World unveiled its first themed rooms, the Pirates of the Caribbean rooms at Disney’s Caribbean Beach Resort. The rooms have pirate-ship beds, treasure-chest themed furniture and a swashbuckling curtain. Earlier this year, the Orlando Sentinel reported that the pirate-themed rooms, which were located in what was the least popular area of the Caribbean Beach Resort, have now become the most requested rooms.

Specially themed rooms have become popular in Orlando in recent years, with the nearby Nickelodeon Suites Resort offering rooms featuring Spongebob Squarepants and Dora the Explorer. The Loews Resorts at Universal Orlando have also ventured into themed rooms, with Dr. Seuss and Jurassic Park-themed suites.

Disney’s Art of Animation Resort will have courtyards with “larger-than-life” icons from the four featured animated films. It is being built adjacent to Disney’s Pop Century Resort, off Osceola Parkway east of Disney’s Hollywood Studios.

Walt Disney World had prepped the site and started a couple of buildings there a few years back, when it was the planned second phase of the Pop Century Resort. But those plans were abandoned following the 2001 recession, and the buildings have sat empty and unfinished since then.

This will be Disney World’s 26th resort, and the first new hotel at Walt Disney World in seven years. (Disney has built three new vacation ownership resorts in the interim.)

The news of a new Disney hotel has energized Central Florida, with many believing that this is Disney’s vote of confidence that the tourism-supported economy here is turning around. Ground will be broken on the project later this summer, and it is expected to create as many as 800 jobs.

“This project also underscores our optimism about the future, as we continue to invest in new experiences for our guests around the globe,” said Tom Staggs, chairman of Walt Disney Parks and Resorts.

Disney’s Art of Animation Resort is projected to open by the end of 2012.

Jon Bowermaster: Dispatches from St. John – Day 2

by Jon Bowermaster on

Given its history of wildness, the 114-tent-and-boardwalk resort known as Maho Bay Camps is a perfect fit on St. John, as close to a true eco-resort as any I’ve seen around the world. Which surprises no one more than Stanley Selengut, the camp’s owner who put up the initial 18 tents in 1976. “That phrase – eco-resort – didn’t exist then,” says a longtime Maho Bay manager once explained to me. “Stanley and a bunch of his friends were down here and someone said, ‘This would be a great place for some tent platforms.’ Typical for Stanley, it may not have been his idea, he was the one that figured out how to get things done.”

In these days when any hotel that encourages you not to wash your towel every day wraps itself in a green banner, Maho Bay Camps is the real thing. Recycle-reuse-reduce is its watch-phrase. Showers are communal; potable water accessible in just a couple locations in the 14-acre compound; the restaurant is self-serve; urinals water-less; much of the energy needed to run 114 tents, reception, restaurant, internet solar-produced. In its art studios –open to all guests — glass is recycled by the glass-blowing studio, waste paper by the textile-makers and aluminum cans turned into pendants.

There is definitely a hippie-ish feel to the place, from the tie-dyed batiks made in the textile room to the “volunteers” who come for month-long stints, trading work for a free place to stay. During high season the place fills with families who’ve been coming now for two generations.

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I stay in tent-cabin, A-6, anchoring the far end of the boardwalk, closest to the beach at Maho Bay. It’s perfect for me. Through cracks in the deck flooring I can see the jungle below. The stove is propane, the refrigerator an Igloo cooler filled with ice, and table and chairs made of plastic. A box fan whirs, thanks to 24-hour electricity, necessary to keep the mosquitoes at bay. As I write, a frigate bird lands atop a palm just outside my window and white-tailed tropicbirds and brown boobys flit and soar. Inside, small anole lizards — gecko-like, with colorful, leaf-like dewlaps — do push ups in front of me, reminding me that this is their territory.

Letting the screen door bang behind, I find the head of Maho Goat Trail and wander down to the beach. From here it’s a mile-long walk to the start of one of the most beautiful of the park’s 22 official trails (there are countless unofficial ones, the former detailed in a variety of guidebooks and park service handouts, the latter marked with stone cairns and cryptic, handmade signs). I’m open to following any trail here since the only native mammals on the island are bats and there are no venomous snakes. The only surprise in the woods is the occasional wandering deer or donkey.

Later that one I hike down Cinnamon Bay Trail lured by its reputation for having an incredible lookout over Maho Bay. Inside the forest is dark, tropical, intensely green thanks to recent rains. The trail is narrow and steep to the downhill; you don’t want to slip. Strangler figs, kapok, cocoa, mango and bay rum trees are thick and tall, the undergrowth heavy with star-like teyer palms, sweet lime and anthurium. Turpentine trees – what locals have dubbed tourist tree – expose a pink skin beneath peeling bark. Guts, natural rocky drainages criss-cross the trail channeling water downhill; man-made swales – lines of strategically placed rocks across the trail – are angled to divert the rainwater and prevent erosion.

As I walk down, slowly to avoid slipping, a solitary black bat leads me. Small lizards, imported to the island centuries ago to help kill insects, run across the trail; a variety of snails meander. Yellow & black bananaquits dart among the trees, many of which are home to giant termite balls built in the low crotches. Halfway down the 45-minute hike the trees open up, exposing a western view from the island, over Cinnamon Bay to Trunk Bay and beyond.

As I walk I try to make out the stone terraces that once divvied the island into 100 sugarcane plantations. Everything was a clear-cut then, except for the mangoes and cocoa tree. Men, women and children slaved over the farms, in tropical heat.

At the bottom of the trail, just across from the long sand beach at Cinnamon Bay, sit the ruins of a two hundred year old plantation. Buildings, like the terraces, were constructed from stone, brain coral and occasionally imported red and yellow bricks from England and Germany. Tall stone columns, still standing, at one time supported the big room used to store brown sugar, molasses, barrels of rum and crushed and dried sugarcane stalks. There was a boiling and distillery house next door, where they used to make St. John’s Bay Rum (cologne, not alcohol!). Sitting on one of the stonewalls, sweating from the hike, nearly meditating thanks to the quiet of the forest, I can almost see and hear the young children climbing the bay rum trees, carefully stripping the leaves, putting them into sacks and carrying them off to be distilled.

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The top ten rudest flight attendants (among the top 50 major carriers)

by Grant Martin on

Our old friend Doug Lansky has been a traveling whirlwind this year, collecting data and taking notes for his newly released book, The Titanic Awards, a compendium of the world’s worst travel mishaps. Below, he reflects on his experiences with flight attendants.

Even if you don’t have permanent scarring where the drink cart meets you elbow, you’ve probably flown enough to know that some flight attendants seem to handle the tired, agitated and even content passengers better than others. Perhaps it’s just a few bad apples, but it seems American and United have attracted (or trained) enough of them to share the title according to a survey of over 2000 people from 80 different countries, Disagree with these results? Take the new 2010 survey at TitanicAwards.com. For more fun survey results and other “Worsts of Travel” tales, check out the book, The Titanic Awards (Perigee, May 4, 2010).

Check out the results of the survey in the slideshow below.

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Travel Trends: The rise of the ‘Free Independent Traveler’ (FIT)

by Gadling Staff on

Over the last few years, the world travel landscape has undergone significant changes brought by security concerns, the economic crisis and green considerations. These new conditions have given rise to a new type of tourist: the “Free Independent Traveler,” or FIT. The term refers generally to people over 35, of above average income, and who like to travel in small groups or as couples. They avoid mass tourism and the holiday package of traditional travel operators, and favor a more individualistic approach to travel. They may or may not be “Four Percenters.”

Free Independent Travelers as an alternative movement?
FITs tend to be environmentally aware, with the desire to experience new ways of life and usually are enthusiastic, off-the-beaten-track explorers with a thirst for experiencing the “real thing.” They enjoy good food, architecture, and the heritage of local cultures.

Also, they are an important and growing sector in the travel market. Governments, regional tourist boards and other public sectors responsible for tourism development try to attract them. Why? The basic principle is economics. FITs spread their money around in a more efficient fashion, buying from multiple locations driven by their own particular itinerary and tastes and by the intention of enjoying the local way of life. In contrast, tour groups concentrate in a few providers, which tend to spread money in a less than optimal manner.


The Power of Information
How FITs garner information for their trips is of vital importance. Not surprisingly, a wide variety of sources and/or tips from social websites are key.Sites such as Lonely Planet’s Thorn Tree forum or GoNOMAD.com are both examples and represent the fundamental difference between the FIT and other types of traveler. Many FITs are even leraging Facebook, Twitter, Foursquare and other social networking sites to get information about trips. After all, independent travel is about the sharing and passing on of ideas and knowledge. The FIT vacation is a custom-built menu fed by suggestions from friends, forums, specialty providers or others. The rise of low-cost airlines in the US and Europe has also increased the supply of alternative and lower cost short haul destinations fueling demand for these newly available markets.

The internet is fundamental to the rise of the FIT, and as such, many traditional Travel Operators interested in tapping into this new, growing market are starting to offer fully customized travel options through their websites to create almost an oxymoron: Independent Travel Operators.

Take a look at the trends in information gathering and travel booking below. (Please note that all data points for 2010 and 2011 have been forecasted to show future trends. We can’t see into the future.)

Information Sourcing for Travel
As you can clearly see below, FITs have turned almost exclusively to the Internet for information gathering and trip-planning.

Where do people go to price airline tickets?
As you can see from this chart, FITs have largely abandoned advice from tour guides, tour books, friends, and relatives to price airline tickets. [Ed’s note — who ever asked their friends for details about airline ticket prices?!] With the rise of the Internet, FITs are instead going directly to the source to learn about and compare airline ticket prices. For anyone who has ever visited a booking aggregator or an airline website, of course, this makes perfect sense.

Where do people go to book tours?
As with the chart above, FITs have almost entirely abandoned tour operators for actually booking their trips and/or extended tours.

So are you a FIT traveler?

Data Sources:

See more Travel Trends.

Somaliland adventure: getting to nowhere

by Sean McLachlan on

One of the tempting things about travel in Ethiopia is the proximity to other nations offering a variety of different experiences. I decided that my two-month trip would include a side trip to Somaliland.

The first reaction most people have when I say I’ve been to Somaliland is, “You went to Somalia? Are you crazy?”

The answer is no on both counts. Somaliland is the other Somalia, the place that doesn’t get into the news because it’s at peace. Somaliland encompasses the northern third of former Somalia and declared independence in 1991. After a bloody war of independence it quietly settled down to create a nation in a region better known for its pirates, terrorists, and warlords. It’s east of Djibouti, northeast of Ethiopia, and west of Puntland, another breakaway region.

Somaliland isn’t recognized by the rest of the world. Other nations insist the Transitional Federal Government in Mogadishu is the legitimate government of all Somalia, despite it only controlling the airport and half the capital. Somaliland is officially nowhere.

Luckily for me, Nowhere has an efficient office in the Ethiopian capital Addis Ababa that issues visas. Actually getting into Somaliland is less straightforward. There are daily flights to the capital Hargeisa from Addis and other regional cities, but I prefer overland travel because it’s cheaper and allows you to see the countryside. I’d spoken with various Somaliland officials as to the advisability of this choice. Some said the overland route wasn’t safe for foreigners, while others insisted it was. I decided to visit Harar in eastern Ethiopia and check for myself.

Harar is a small city and within the first day I’d heard from three different people that the man to talk to was Muhammed Dake, a Somali-Ethiopian author and guide who has many connections on both sides of the border. I found him to be a font of information. His English is good and he can be contacted at guleidhr(at)yahoo(dot)com. Please note he’s very busy and can only answer serious inquiries about travel to Somaliland. As luck would have it, his cousin and a friend were headed back home to Hargeisa on the bus and agreed to take me along. Both were jalabis, women who wore the traditional Muslim garb of the region that covers everything but the face and hands. Traveling with them was bound to get me even more attention than usual.

“Don’t worry,” Dake said. “They’ll say you’re a convert to Islam and that they’re your wives.”

%Gallery-92636%My “wives” don’t speak much English, but as we head to the bus station one manages to tell me she used to live in Mogadishu before fleeing to Hargeisa and how grateful she is to live in a place where there’s no gunfire in the streets.

The first leg of the journey is a bus from Harar east to Jijiga, capital of the Somali province of Ethiopia. People are jammed in the rickety seats–old men and workers, women in jilabas, hordes of children and infants. A leper shoulders his way through the crowd begging for alms. We’re packed in with our luggage because the roof is covered with kegs of beer. The bus descends through a winding mountain pass dotted with villages. My attention is divided between the landscape and a poster taped to the partition behind our driver. It shows a Western model posed like a Hellenic statue, a perfect ruby of a nipple leading us on to Jijiga.

After a couple of hours we pull into Jijiga’s bus station–a clamorous, dusty, crowded place thick with flies. My traveling companions decide it’s a good place to have lunch. They take me to a stall made of a latticework of eucalyptus poles covered in plastic sheeting and cardboard. The only thing on the menu is spaghetti that we eat with our hands.

I quickly make a fool of myself. Since in this region you can only eat with one hand (the other being reserved for the final stage of the digestive process) there is no way to get all those unruly strands of pasta together long enough to make the trip to your mouth. Of course the four-year-old boy next to me is doing it just fine. He gives me a wide-eyed stare.

After amusing everyone with my bad table manners we squish ourselves into a minibus and head to the border. Soon the low concrete buildings of Jijiga disappear behind us and the road descends through rockier and drier terrain. We pass through a valley filled with boulders and eerie spires that loom over the road. Soon it flattens out and we’re speeding along a dry, featureless plain of stone and scrub. The beehive-shaped huts of wood and thatch so common throughout Ethiopia are replaced by low domes of wickerwork covered in tarpaulins, rags, and plastic. Lines of camels walk sedately along the road.

Tog Wuchale, straddling the Ethiopia-Somaliland border, has the distinction of being the second ugliest town I have ever seen. It’s a huddle of concrete buildings, shacks, and tents in the middle of a dusty plain strewn with garbage. Flies swarm over masses of rotting food. Every thorn bush is draped in plastic bags. There doesn’t seem to be a trash can in the entire province. This is what happens when a nomadic people are suddenly thrust into consumer culture. Before, a family might have occasionally thrown something away, a worn-out basket perhaps, but it would soon disintegrate. Nothing ever accumulated because the people themselves were always moving. Now they’ve settled and joined The Age of Plastic.

As soon as we’re off the bus, a “customs agent” tries to shake me down for money. My travel companions fling a few choice Somali words at him and he slinks away. Anyone who thinks Muslim women can’t stand up for themselves has never been to a Muslim country. They hire a porter with a bright yellow wheelbarrow to take their suitcases across the border and we pick our way through heaps of garbage past a sad trickle of a river choked with trash that oozes through the center of town. My poor boots. I pity the ladies in their sandals.

As we approach the border another guy comes up saying he’s a customs agent and asks to see my passport. Of course I blow him off. I mean, he has no ID, not even a uniform! But he speaks good English and is persistent.

“Where’s your uniform?” I ask. He looks confused.

We arrive at the Ethiopian side of the border, marked only by a tent in front of which two soldiers sit chewing chat, a narcotic leaf, their AK-47s resting on their laps. I try to hand them my passport but they point to the fellow who’s been following me.

“I told you I was a customs agent,” he grumbles as he stamps my passport.

A quick inspection on the other side of the border and I get my Somaliland stamp. I am now officially nowhere.

Now it’s time to get somewhere. My companions, who like all the other Somalis didn’t get checked on either side of the border, find a shared taxi. It’s a beat up old station wagon with a slow leak in two tires. The driver is a bleary-eyed maniac with chat leaves sticking out of his mouth. He’s also a sadist. He stuffs ten adult passengers, one infant, and an immense pile of luggage inside. One guy straddles the gear shift. I’m squashed between the door and my friend from Mogadishu.

Mr. Chat slams on the gas and we peel out into the desert. The only road is a groove of tire tracks over sand and pebbles. We weave between bushes and dodge the occasional camel. The view out the front window looks like some low-budget video game. I’m not afraid. Even if we hit something, the door and my “wife” have me jammed into place better than any seat belt. We head into the dusk as the broken window funnels a spray of fine sand into my face.

After a while we mercifully come to a newly paved road and speed on, halted only by regular checkpoints. My passport is scrutinized at every one. While I’m sorely tempted to use these breaks to get out and stretch my legs–they haven’t moved for hours and my knees get slammed by the driver’s seat every time we hit a bump–everyone warns me not to get out of the car. At this point my left leg is getting excruciating cramps, and for the last half hour into Hargeisa I stand up with my back pressed against the roof.

Entering Hargeisa at night the first thing I notice is that all the lights are on. In Harar I endured daily blackouts. Neon signs flash ads for expensive imports. People sit at cafes. Shoppers stroll along the street. We pull up in front of the Oriental Hotel and I thank my companions. I limp inside to discover I’m in a posh hotel.

Nowhere has a First World capital.

Coming up next: Hargeisa, a capital in search of a country.