California is a place full of good smells and bad, overly-fit and fat people in tiny clothes, and long, long lines. At least in my experience.
Last week we took our kids to Legoland. We’ve heard from numerous sources that Legoland is a fantastic place to take children twelve and under. That’s about accurate, even if the adults accompanying those twelve-and-youngers are bored.
The weather was perfect: warm sunshine and a cool breeze. The whole park smelled of flowers and fried food. We got there early enough that the lines weren’t outrageous for a couple of hours. The cities made of Lego were interesting. Most of the rides were small kid-friendly, and adult eye-rolling.
Then our youngest child saw a roller coaster. He had to go! Please! Please! Please! By this time the lines had grown to four times their previous size. While waiting and waiting for our turn on “The Dragon”, our youngest put his hand on the railing behind him while looking elsewhere. As his hand was unattended, someone behind us in line sat on it. The sitting man’s tush completely covered our son’s hand, and our son (being a more than usual ham) started trying theatrically to pull it out. “Mom! Mom! Look!” he yelled.
I started laughing uncontrollably, tears running down my face, the other kids were looking around trying to figure out if this was funny or embarrassing. My husband offered suggestions for freeing our son’s hand in between laughs. Through all that, our youngest just kept tugging.
Either that man was deaf (which I doubt since he was talking the whole time), or he has a medical condition in his tush where he cannot feel it when he sits on something that moves. Finally, our son freed his hand, and the man who sat on it continued on, oblivious that he had done anything out of the ordinary.
Along with all the other recommendations for Legoland you’ll find out there, let me put in this one: Look for a hispanic man in a pink tee-shirt and stonewash jeans. If you find him, slap him on the behind for us. Thanks.