A fresh spin on
family vacations
But theme parks, they’re supposed to be joyful and fun — even the ones my family visits, which tend to look like that they were built entirely out of papier maché in the 1950s. It seems to me this feeling shouldn’t wear off just because you’re old enough to suspect the guy piloting the Buccaneer Pirate Ship is not an actual pirate.
I was especially looking forward to visiting Santa’s Village and Storyland last week, given that my kids are outgrowing the need to tromp repeatedly through the Three Bears’ House, where they try out beds that have already been laid upon by the entire under-5 population of northern New England. Instead they’re getting into the various roller coasters and tilt-a-whirls, which I figured would be more fun for me — at least until I actually went on one, and was surprised at the end of the ride to find that my stomach was sharing a car with an entirely different family.
It didn’t used to be like this, I thought. Yes, there was the time when I was 5 that my father had to ask an operator to stop the spinning, upside-down Ferris wheel, but that’s just because I had underestimated the ability of a spinning, upside-down Ferris wheel to rattle your psyche with the certainty of your own impending demise. But during my teen years I would go on any ride, particularly if I was on a date and there was a chance the girl might be thrown up against me accidentally. (I’m not positive, but when you’re 14 I think incidental contact on the Scrambler is considered getting to first base.)
But it seems my ability to stomach such amusements has waned. I found this out when my wife, who apparently has a more realistic assessment of her internal fulcrum, declared certain rides off limits, and I volunteered to be the designated chaperone. Who knew that by the third time on the Rudy’s Rapid Transit roller coaster I’d wish I was in a fetal position on Baby Bear’s mattress?
I recall specifically on one ride at Santa’s Village, while my kids were emitting peals of joyous laughter, I was taking quick, shallow breaths and trying to develop coping mechanisms. I tried focusing on the cartoon moose on the wall, and then on the giant penguin garbage can, and finally decided on the rotating disco ball in the center of the ride. This may seem like a poor choice, but by the 13th or 14th time around I truly believe the disco ball had helped me develop a Travolta-esque Zen — I had accepted my fate, like when Vincent Vega walked out of the bathroom to find Bruce Willis waiting for him in “Pulp Fiction.”
Besides, I’m not naïve enough to think my kids will be begging me to take them on roller coasters forever — before long I’ll be lucky if they’re asking me to take them to the mall, and even then I’ll have to duck down in my seat and stop a block away. So I’ll soldier on as long as it keeps getting me hugs, even if it turns out I don’t have a theme-park need for speed.
Which, incidentally, is a trait I could have used on the drive home. Another good thing about fake pirates: They don’t issue $72 speeding tickets.