Mickey Mouse floated into France not long ago and touched down, amid considerable fanfare, on a 5,000-acre sugar beet field twenty miles outside Paris. Coming along for the transatlantic ride was a quartet of American architects – plus one Gallic brother – who, depending on whom you ask, rose or sank to the occasion with 4,683 theme hotel rooms and fourteen theme restaurants. "An American theme theme park? Quelle horreur!" cried the French intelligentsia, dismissing Euro Disney as an oxymoron. On the other hand: "Quelle joe!" cried my four-year-old French friend, Laetitia, whom took along one sunny Saturday morning for a little perspective.
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