By Madelyn Reese, Staff Writer, Emerson College
The first thing I noticed was the musty air. I could barely see anything because the lights, which were fixed to flicker like torches, poorly lit the whole cavern. I held my mom’s hand as our family was wound around the path like cattle, with crying children both ahead and behind us. The parents clung to plastic soda containers that promised free refills and found themselves stuck with “commemorative” pins that they didn’t trust their children with wearing.
After what seemed like miles of shuffling and complaining, I was met with what would, for the rest of my family’s Disneyland trip, be the bane of my existence: the Indiana Jones ride. It was a full ten minutes long, unheard of for most modern rides. It was supposed to be an “adventure,” filled with skeletons and evil spirits and molten lava. I approached this with confidence. I could ride California Screamin’, after all, without actually screaming once. But as we took off towards the pair of glowing eyes in the dark tunnel ahead, my head found its way into my mom’s lap, where it stayed for the rest of the ride.
When the hydraulic jeeps dumped us at the exit, I tried to clear my lungs of the musty air and adjust to the searing Southern California sun. Relieved, I started walking out towards the main thoroughfare before my dad cried enthusiastically, “Let’s do it again!”
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The first thing I noticed was the musty air. I could barely see anything because the lights, which were fixed to flicker like torches, poorly lit the whole cavern. I held my mom’s hand as our family was wound around the path like cattle, with crying children both ahead and behind us. The parents clung to plastic soda containers that promised free refills and found themselves stuck with “commemorative” pins that they didn’t trust their children with wearing.
After what seemed like miles of shuffling and complaining, I was met with what would, for the rest of my family’s Disneyland trip, be the bane of my existence: the Indiana Jones ride. It was a full ten minutes long, unheard of for most modern rides. It was supposed to be an “adventure,” filled with skeletons and evil spirits and molten lava. I approached this with confidence. I could ride California Screamin’, after all, without actually screaming once. But as we took off towards the pair of glowing eyes in the dark tunnel ahead, my head found its way into my mom’s lap, where it stayed for the rest of the ride.
When the hydraulic jeeps dumped us at the exit, I tried to clear my lungs of the musty air and adjust to the searing Southern California sun. Relieved, I started walking out towards the main thoroughfare before my dad cried enthusiastically, “Let’s do it again!”
Read More Here