Orlando

I will confess I approached Orlando with a Frenchman’s mild snobbery — surely a city that exists to sell roller coasters could hold nothing for us. Lia, more generous and more honest about her love of a good ride, dragged me here anyway, and within a day I had abandoned my prejudice on the tarmac. Yes, the theme parks are extraordinary, and we gave ourselves over to them completely. But Orlando surprised me most in its off-hours — the early mornings before the crowds, the string of small lakes threaded through the city, the old brick neighbourhoods draped in Spanish moss. It is a place with two entirely separate personalities, and we made a point of meeting both.

Surrendering to the parks

We spent two days doing exactly what one comes to Orlando to do, and I refuse to be embarrassed about it. At the great cluster of theme parks southwest of the city we walked through fully realised worlds — a wizarding castle where the “butterbeer” is genuinely good, a safari that puts real giraffes an arm’s length from your truck, a night-time show of fountains and fireworks that had Lia gripping my arm like a child. What impressed me, as a sceptic, was the sheer craft of the illusion: the way an entire street is themed down to the doorknobs, the engineering of a ride that drops your stomach and tells a story at the same time. We were exhausted, sunburnt, and grinning by the end of each day, and I finally understood the pilgrimage.

Lake Eola and the real downtown

The Orlando the tourists miss lies downtown, around Lake Eola — a small round lake with a lit fountain at its centre and a paved path circling the water beneath the towers. We walked it at dawn, when the only company was joggers and the resident swans, including the absurd and wonderful swan-shaped pedal boats moored at the edge. On Sundays a farmers’ market fills the lakeside park, and we spent a slow morning there among live oaks hung with moss, the skyline mirrored in the still water. Nearby Thornton Park and the historic Milk District revealed brick bungalows, independent cafés, and a genuine neighbourhood life that has nothing to do with the parks. Lia said it felt like the city’s secret, and I think she was right.

Winter Park and the moss-draped lakes

Our favourite discovery lay just north, in Winter Park, an elegant old town of brick streets, a leafy avenue of boutiques and cafés called Park Avenue, and a chain of interconnected lakes. We took the scenic boat tour, a slow pontoon that glides through narrow canals dug between the lakes, past grand lakeside mansions, cypress knees, and turtles sunning on logs, the whole route shaded by overhanging oaks and moss. Afterwards we wandered the Morse Museum, home to the world’s great collection of Tiffany glass, its stained-glass chapel glowing like a jewel box. Lia and I ended the day with gelato on Park Avenue, watching the town’s unhurried evening, and agreed that Orlando had quietly out-charmed every expectation we had smuggled in with us.

Getting There

Orlando International Airport is one of the busiest in the country and lies about twenty minutes southeast of downtown, with the sleek Brightline train now linking it directly to Miami and the coast. The city sits on Interstate 4 in the middle of the Florida peninsula, roughly an hour from Tampa and ninety minutes from the Atlantic beaches, and while the theme parks run their own shuttle networks, a car is genuinely useful for reaching downtown, Winter Park, and the lakes beyond the resort bubble. We rented one and were glad of it — the best of Orlando, it turned out, was the part you have to drive a little to find.