coney island: a metaphor of sorts

Ted took me to Coney Island because he said I had to ride the Cyclone so I could be a real New Yorker. The beach there has a lot of trashcans.

We went to the aquarium and watched people Shoot the Freak and ate a mango on a stick. We made out on the Wonderwheel and had lunch at a Russian place down the boardwalk in Brighton Beach. We went to the Freak Show, and it was disgusting and amazing, and when we walked out of it, it wasn’t summer anymore, but fall.

We bought tickets for the Cyclone and got in line. And we waited. And waited. Because the rollercoaster was stuck. It was full of people and had stopped at the top of the first hill. For a long time. They were up there for at least twenty minutes before anyone decided what to do. And the solution was for all the Cyclone employees to climb up there and push start it so that it could run the rest of the way. We got a refund because the rollercoaster couldn’t go again until after the inspector came. I guess it was a big deal, because when we walked out, we were bombarded by reporters who wanted to know what had happened up there.

And even though we’d witnessed what bad things could happen, we came back and re-bought our tickets and got back in line. It was thrilling and terrifying and so much fun. I forget how much I love rollercoasters.


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1 comment:

Romantic bed and breakfasts said...

Coney Island is the westernmost of the barrier islands of Long Island, about four miles (6 km) long and one-half mile wide. It used to be an island, separated from the main part of Brooklyn by Coney Island Creek, part of which was little more than tidal flats. There were plans into the 20th century to dredge and straighten the creek as a ship canal, but they were abandoned and the center of the creek was filled in for construction of the Belt Parkway before World War II. The western and eastern ends are now peninsulas