And I do, I really do. I regret every choice I’ve ever made in life that has brought us to this misbegotten moment. Everyone around us is screaming. I am screaming. The wail rips from my mouth as my stomach lurches downwards. My eldest son grabs my hand, his terror pressing into my bones. One seat ahead, my little one keens constantly, a thin, tea-kettle scream that never ends and cuts me to the heart.
What an immense mistake. I hug the rail as bored attendants usher us out of the coaster, my knees trembling, tears rolling down my face. My husband’s face is pure white. My children are traumatised. Our family will never be the same.
My five year old baby is vibrating, a violin string ringing with pure emotion. I open my arms. He ignores them.
“AGAIN!” he shrieks at the top of his voice. “AAAAGGAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNN.”
Here I am, regretting every choice I’ve ever made for the second time this morning. What else can I do? Jon flat-out refused to consider it. My eldest son will probably need therapy. That leaves only me to take the baby on the rollercoaster again, my screams ripped out of me, blind with tears.
“Would you like the coaster photo for only $23.95?” a smiling booth attendant asks us on the way out. Hey look, there we are! Captured mid-ride by a sadistic hippogriff, the image shows my youngest son nearly incandescent with ecstasy, and me beside him, my face a rictus of terror.
“@#$% &@@. &%! #**!(#@,” I reply.
With some deliberation, we had decided to not tell the kids much about Universal Studios beforehand. I knew next to nothing about it anyway, apart from the exorbitant price of the tickets. Good lord, nearly a month’s mortgage repayment just for the four of us for one day?! But hey, when would we ever be in Los Angeles again? We’d do it for the kids.
“It’s about the movies,” I tell them, scratching in the vague direction of my nose.
“What about the movies? Like another museum?” My eldest has had enough of museums.
“Maybe. And rides. Like a tour maybe.”
“What rides? How much does each ride cost?”
“The rides are included in the cost of the ticket, so we’ve already paid for them. We won’t need to spend anything more while we’re there,” I say firmly. I am certain of this.
“I don’t like movies,” the little one announces.
“Yes you do. We have already paid for the tickets so we are going to go, spend hours in lines, and have the happiest day ever.”
“That’s Disneyland,” says the big one. Skepticism is rolling off him in waves.
“Then you’ll have to work for it a bit harder,” I say.
We have taken an uber across the heart of Los Angeles at 8.30 in the morning. It’s earlier than we liked, and the kids look sleepy and resigned. But I’ve read an article of helpful tips, and getting to Universal Studios early is tip number one. Tip number two is to bring lots of cash, which I’ve disregarded.
We wander in with the growing crowds, not sure what to expect. The first scream comes from the little one.
“MINIONS!” he howls, sighting a giant theme store.
“MINIONS!” the big one howls back, and they bolt for consumer paradise. No, no and no. We did not fly fifteen hours to waste all our money on crap. We will not fall victim to the self-immolating principles of rampant capitalism. We will remember we are in possession of inviolate human souls.
A passing Tweety Bird gives me an odd look. I may not have the right audience.
In the end, my kids only acquiesce to simple physics – if we load ourselves down with shopping in the beginning, we’d have to carry it around the whole day. We stow our bags in a locker and drag their little woebegone faces past the stores, into Harry Potter world.
Tip three was to hit Harry Potter first, before the crowds push you out. And it is spectacular. Storybook castles, magical creatures, Hogwart’s express and Diagon Alley, it’s the movies come to life. Like everyone around us, we are rapt with enchantment.
“A ride!” I declare. Before the lines get long.
“Which ride?” the kids want to know.
“Any ride! That one!” A curly-lettered sign says it’s the Flight of the Hippogriff. “Wow! This is going to be awesome!”
Half an hour and a lifetime of regret later, me and my youngest son meet up with my husband and eldest son. They’ve calmed their nerves with butterbeer (butterscotch fizzy) and a wander through the wand shop. People are buying wands (five dozen varieties, named for the characters) then walking around Harry Potter world, doing magic with them. You can make lights flicker, the train whistle, doors rattle, cupboards bang their doors.
“I want a wand,” the baby says.
“Never,” I say. “Let’s see what else is here.”
The next world we hit is Silly Fun Land, populated by more minions. We fly – thank God, sedately – in brightly-painted carousel cars. There’s a water play park next to us, too chilly to be in use. We find the Despicable Me virtual coaster and split up again, the youngest eager for more thrills and the eldest refusing to go near a coaster.
“Where have you been?” my husband asks an hour later. He and the big one have done The Secret Life of Pets.
“The line took 45 minutes,” I say.
“It was fantathtic!” shouts the little one.
We decide to do the Secret Life of Pets together, and then my eldest son allows himself to be convinced to try the virtual rollercoaster. Both kids are going crazy with excitement now, jumping and spinning, their faces alight. My husband’s face, on the other hand, is looking drawn. I suspect I look the same.
I am standing outside the Despicable Me ride while my husband takes both kids through. I have most of an hour to wait. Tweety Bird approaches me again. He has a security retinue.
“My kids aren’t here. I don’t have to pretend to be nice right now,” I warn him. He silently curses me beneath that giant yellow foam head and waddles away.
I look around. We’ve come through a picturesque Parisian alley with flower boxes and mopeds, which resembles absolutely no place in actual Paris. Life-size cartoons wander the crowds. A supposed janitor starts break-dancing, to spontaneous applause. I want to stick a fork in my eye.
Behind me, there’s the facade of a genuine Irish Pub. How interesting. I wander inside.
“Is that menu real?” I ask of the genuine Irish bartender behind the bar, while I wave at the chalkboard behind him. He smiles.
“And are those drinks real? With real alcohol, I mean?” He gestures to the card swipe machine.
Twenty minutes later, half a cherry daiquiri in hand, my outlook on life has changed remarkably. I am in California, and the sun is shining on me. Piped audio of birds are sweetly singing. My kids are having a spectacular time. My kids! I do it all for them.
“Darlings!” I shout at them, waving my empty cocktail glass. What a glorious day.
“It’s 11.30 in the morning,” says my husband. He is impressed. And a little jealous.
We have a lunch in a 50s diner with decidedly un-50s prices. We head down the escalators, the views extending for miles, to find the lower lot an unexpected bust. Jurassic World is closed and the little one, the only one who wants to go on The Mummy and Transformer coasters, is an inch too short.
No matter. We head back to the upper lot. Geesh, these escalators are a ride themselves. My eldest discovers a love of virtual coasters, like the Simpsons ride we’re on – we sit in our little car which jinks and jerks in all directions, while enormous screens provide the illusion of rails the height of mountains, or swinging through the air. They feel much safer than real coasters, and without the G forces. Outside they’re selling doughnuts the size of our heads.
But the kids have their sights set on a different dessert. We race back to Minion Land (hitting the Kung Fu Panda ride on the way) to grab a banana cream and blue raspberry slushie, peppered with crunchy banana candy. It is American and filthy and delicious.
It’s 4pm and we can’t even think of leaving yet. We take a break with the studio tour. We sit on a bus while Jimmy Fallon shouts at us and we trundle past old film sets. They’re relics now, a bygone era of studios and sets that have been swept away by the need to shoot on-location. The kids couldn’t care less.
We’re getting frantic now, going crazy with the need to fit in more, more Universal Studios, before the gates close on us forever. My feet are killing me. I am hungover and sunburnt. I cannot leave. The kids lead us back to Harry Potter world.
The baby is an inch too short for the Hogwarts castle virtual coaster, so this time I take the big one while Jon takes the little one to a magic wand show. This ride is my favourite; we hang in seats, swinging around in a long loop, while screens make us think we’re flying on a broomstick through haunted forests and Quidditch grounds. I love it, but I’m worried my son’s shoes (with broken laces) will fall off.
We make it through with shoes intact and locate my youngest son in the wand shop, clutching a wand. He looks like he’s seen heart of the universe. “The wand chose me,” he says with whispered reverence, clutching a long thin box to his chest.
Jon explains. At the wand show, Professor McGonagall asked for a volunteer to do some magic. She volunteered my little boy. He ‘tried’ a few different wands, resulting in some mild storms and explosions, before a beam of pure light and gospel music sanctified the right wand for him, a walnut and dragon heart-string wand, a special wand that can only be obtained through the show and not the store.
“So it’s free?” I ask Professor McGonagall.
“$59.95,” she replies, pointing to the counter.
I desperately try to loosen my son’s grip on the wand, which is, really, a damned plastic stick with a chip in one end. His tiny baby hands are like cement. “The wand chose me,” he re-iterates, with the light-blind stare of the true fanatic.
I give up. “We’ll take out a second mortgage,” I say, lifting my son bodily onto the counter.
To play fair, the eldest has to bankrupt us a third time. He chooses a delicate baby snow owl, perched on his shoulder with a curved magnet, which chirps and ruffles enchantingly when it hears its owner’s voice. We’d learn later the owl is a much-desired and almost mythical item, usually sold out when disappointed hordes descend on Harry Potter world.
The sun is setting, evening drifting down gently across this enchanted kingdom in the heart of Los Angeles. Our feet hurt harder than we’ve ever known. We move back through the stores, buying everything the kids want. Presents for everyone they know. Minion candy, a plush toy for the little one, an evil rabbit shirt for the eldest. We’ll never be here again, I tell myself. I just want them to have something to hold, something to remind them of this one magical day. It’s all for them.
“Here mum!” my big one calls to me. He’s holding up a t-shirt, ash-of-roses colour, with silvery-gold letters embossed on the front. Wingardium Leviosa. It’s beautiful.
“It’s for you,” he says.