Voulez-vous du Prozac?

Like all Disney outposts, the crowd-control machinery at Euro-Disney is all-American, which means that you might as well pitch a tent, unroll your sleeping bag, and pull out a copy of Kahil Gibran.

For us, the madness starts right away. Lines curled, wound and twisted throughout the Newport Beach Resort, a knockoff of a Rhode Island oceanfront hotel. It takes 50 minutes to check in, with scores of sweaty guests and just four perky check-in clerks, each painfully slow but disarmingly cheery under mousketeer ears.

You've waited in line almost an hour, and by god, you want to make sure your room has a good mattress, is stocked with Heineken and Black Label, and not next to the family of six kids each armed with 12 Supersoakers. Angry, harried families spew an assortment of polyglot insults to the hotel clerks. But the Mouse cast-members behind the check-in desk handle the mobs with grace and toothy grins.

Does Disney supply these drones with Prozac?

Finally you make your way to the Magic Kingdom, which, surprise, surprise, is not very relaxing. You're too busy trying to hit all the attractions. It's a mind and body game. You turn into Emmitt Smith, weaving and bobbing, running zig-zag patterns. And because Euro-Disney is so expensive — the more rides and attractions you go on, the better deal your hefty general admission price becomes — you begin feeling like someone with 15 minutes in a shopping sweepstakes. This is Fileen's basement, without the bargains.

Even though you subscribe to the Utne Reader and meditate twice a week, this is no place to be a Zen master. Don't think you can wander around the theatre of war and just "discover" things. There is no serendipity in Euro-Disney.