theme-park – Old Lady Writing

The first time I went to Germany was for my Bucket List item, Raphael’s Sistine Madonna at the Dresden Gallery. The second time was for Oktoberfest, which was on spouse’s Bucket List. The third trip was suggested by daughter—Berlin.

Are mice mascots for every theme park? Asking for a friend

I was advised that Berlin has no fewer than 100 museums. This is not the selling point that one might think, for a seasoned traveler like myself knows that if there are 100 museums, three will be great, five more might be mildly intriguing, and 92 will be one room only/by appointment only/open only on Wednesdays 11 a.m. to 1 p.m./dedicated to an obscure subject like footstools or rakes or plastic hangers/on the outskirts of town reachable via train, bus, taxi and a 40 minute walk/have no website or any other means to ascertain their existence. Still, the DDR Museum alone was enough for me to be intrigued by this scene, and I acquiesced. Now, to a person of my generation, upbringing, and ethnic makeup the concept of “reaching Berlin” means something entirely different than to a younger person half a world removed, and so I braced myself for the encounter with the Brandenburg Gate in real life.

And then the trip went off the rails. Virtually sidling up to me via text, daughter started a relentless campaign of visiting an amusement park in Germany. This person has a great track record of persuasive videos: sending me a video about dogs being able to sniff out cancer was what finally convinced spouse and me to adopt a dog. And so far so good, I am happy to report. Thus at some point, I found myself planning to visit not one but two theme parks, and as far away from Berlin as it is possible to get in this one united Germany. Not my typical vacation, and I will not lie—I was mildly worried about many things, not the least of which was enduring several days of standing in long lines, possibly hurting my back, and missing out on all those museums. And then I said to myself, there have been and will be many museums in my life. But how many rollercoasters do I have left? And that was motivation enough and plenty. It’s not that I did not think there were amusement parks in Europe. After all, I have been to Meli Park https://oldladywriting.com/2025/11/23/whats-in-belgium/. They just were not on my radar—and now I am truly questioning my life choices, because (spoiler alert) I am still a Ride Warrior!

The trip started in the most hectic manner upon arrival in the Frankfurt airport, complete with a wild-ish goose chase of a rental car (I always hate myself a little when I have to rely entirely on my English in a non-English speaking country) and a couple of hours drive on what is most assuredly NOT the autobahn, all on 2 hours of stiff-necked airplane sleep and a 6-hour time difference. But once we entered Europa Park, all of my cares melted away.

No, this is not what you think–inside the giant golf ball is Eurosat-CanCan

It is an enchanting place, and none of my words can do it justice. It has the magic of Disney, but the unfamiliarity of it made it extra special and added to the joy of discovery. It is also not as children-oriented. It is themed like Epcot, with twenty [plus] distinct areas, including 18 European countries/areas, but each region is ride- and food-focused with significantly less commerce. There is the beauty of the park itself, with winding pathways through the trees, charming squares, and gentle rides over air, land, and water. And it has some of the best roller coasters I have ever experienced, led by Voltron, which defies description. It basically combines the best and most thrilling elements of every coaster ever. We rode it three times! Special mentions go to Eurosat-CanCan, where you literally go through giant stylized legs kicking it up; Wodan, a majestic and exciting wooden coaster; and Arthur, a suspended ride with beautiful special effects.

The differences between what I expected based on lived experience and what I got were all good: (1) The lines were not comparable to anything in the U.S. (let alone Russia) and very manageable, with nothing over an hour. The park was packed at the end of May, but somehow, there were no bottlenecks—including as we were exiting at closing time. Everything just moved in an orderly fashion. (2) The food was amazing and affordable. Herring sandwich in the Scandinavia area? Ćevapčići in Croatia? Yes, please. And did I mention, no lines beyond maybe a couple of people? (3) Commercialism was down to a minimum. Of course there were stores, but mostly upon exiting the main rides, and then a couple when you first come in. It really felt like a park rather than a large commercial venture, like something from a kinder, gentler time—despite all the latest in roller coaster technology.

Worst part? A most ridiculous bobsled coaster called Schweizer Bobbahn. Who knew that bobsleds are so incredibly uncomfortable? Honorable worst part mention goes to Euro-Mir, a spinning coaster in the Russian part of the park, which never actually spun for us.

We spent two days at Europa Park, and it was absolutely wonderful. Somehow it just felt very relaxing, alternating intense roller coasters (14 in total) with charming dark rides, boat and train rides, and shows. It was magical—and not enough. And despite being constantly on the move, the less hectic vibe left us rejuvenated rather than exhausted.

And then we went to yet another park, Phantasialand. This one was more of what I am used to—longer lines, more crowded, strictly there for the rides. It is a hilly, mildly claustrophobic, chaotic place, with many of the rides not visible from the waiting areas (which is not a bad thing, because you don’t know how scared you should be). It had its own cool moments: Fly, an absolutely terrifying coaster where you are on your stomach and literally go underground; Talocan, which flips you over, and over, and over; and Mystery Castle, which is an enclosed drop tower. Seeing people scream on the opposite wall when lights flash in the darkness is an absolutely haunting experience. And as previously mentioned, there was the beautiful Wellenflug, flying over an early 20^th century Berlin.

Worst part? A water ride called Chiapas, which apparently has the steepest drop on a log flume in the world and is allegedly the world’s best water ride. It was a good ride, but despite planning and plotting and trying to find the best seats to stay dry, we learned there was NO staying dry. Honorable worst part mention goes to the Fanta bottle that opened unexpectedly while we were riding Colorado Adventure, a mine train, almost making it a water ride as well.

Shockingly, there were no souvenir shops in sight at this park. To be clear, we did not look for them, but they also did not present themselves to us. And the food was excellent as well.

After three action-packed days, Berlin was practically a different world. And that is another story for another time…

I have always been a Ride Warrior, even before I knew what it was. There were no roller coasters in my childhood. In fact, we only heard of “American Mountains”, which is really bizarre when Wikipedia tells me that they originated in St. Petersburg as “Russian Mountains”. Well, there were no Russian mountains, literal or figurative, in my childhood either. There was the Motorbuilders’ Park https://oldladywriting.com/2020/08/18/valor-and-glory-of-the-motorbuilders/, where the biggest excitement on the children’s side was to ride the “boats”.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C6HrjMDwrOU Actual footage of the park in 1974, previously shared by me, but bears reposting. Look for the “boats” at 3:39, and then some “adult” rides, such as the “Devil’s (Ferris)” wheel (4:52).

I was always willing to wait in line for a “boat”, hoping to be paired up with a bigger, stronger kid to rock it, and someone’s dad to give us the initial push, just like the man does in the video. But because I was a preteen when I left the exotic utopia that is Yaroslavl, I never got to go on the adult rides. I must have been on the Devil’s wheel with my mother at some point, because I have a memory of looking at the city from above, but I would not bet on whether it is not a product of my imagination. There was one abortive attempt to get on a version of it during one summer in Pärnu, Estonia. My grandmother and I were promenading at a local amusement park with my friend Nika and her mother Marina, us girls a bit in front of the adults. I was 11, Nika was 13; to ride the wheel unaccompanied one had to be 12 years old, so we logically assumed that she would accompany me. We also assumed that our accompanying adults would not allow us to ride it. And so, we conferred among ourselves, sprinted toward the ticket booth, bought two tickets without any questions, and ran to the wheel. My grandmother and Marina clued in to what was happening and ran, shrieking, in mad pursuit. At 11, I did not have the nerve I subsequently developed; it took a few more years of resistance. We hesitated and all was lost. My grandmother was predictably furious; Marina claimed that she had an immediate hypertensive crisis and a near heart attack. This illustrates that (1) my grandmother was not unique in her attitude of pervasive fear, and (2) my Ride Warrior persona was actively suppressed.

Grandmother sort of redeemed herself when she took me to Disneyworld when I was 16. It was a guided bus tour from New York, one of three she and I have taken during my teenage years. The others were a day trip to Washington, DC with a Russian guide almost comically ignorant of American history, informing a bunch of rapt elderly Russians about a great Civil War general Lee Grant and other similar “facts”. The other one was a dull yet chaotic visit to Montreal, which the guide did his best to show off as resembling NYC as much as possible and dutifully avoiding any tourist attractions, and Quebec City, my only memory of which is ordering frites in my self-conscious three years of high school French. Montreal redeemed itself when I visited it with a gal pal a few years ago, though I still think of it as a Canadian New York. But I digress…

During one of the bus stops en route to Florida, I encountered a friend with whom I went to day camp in Brooklyn a few years prior, and the trip really took off. My grandmother did her best to thwart us, but we still managed to sneak out of our respective motel rooms after my grandmother and my friend’s parents were asleep and bond over teenage secrets and music in the parking lot. Like years before, my friend and I attempted to ride something forbidden by my grandmother as extremely dangerous—Space Mountain. I do not recall how I managed to get away from her, but freedom was short lived. Scouring the line, she spotted me and pulled me out of line with a lot of hysteria and reminders that as she paid for the trip, I must spend all my time with her. My friend stayed; her parents were unbothered. I went to ride the teacups, which grandma declared the best ride at Magic Kingdom, and did not get to Space Mountain until I returned with another friend my senior year of college. I screamed the entire time, and it was worth the wait.

This is at Cedar Point, but the one in Gorky Park was similar, without a cover.

My mother, who is most assuredly NOT a Ride Warrior, was, and remains to this day, an enthusiastic person who is open to new experiences and adventures. It must have been that same summer when I was 11 that the two of us happened to be in Moscow’s famous Gorky Park. To us, it was famous strictly for its amazing “American style” amusement rides, and it was before the novel anyway. We waited in line for what seemed, and might have been, an entire day to ride what is basically the Matterhorn. I did not see any roller coasters, either because the crowds were overwhelming, or because I was in a state of shock from all the excitement. My grandfather later confessed that one time when he was in Moscow he also went on this ride, and my grandmother was predictably furious to learn this, because (1) he had a bad heart, (2) he had a bad leg, and (3) he, the main provider for our family, risked his life in this manner. It will surprise no one that in all the summers I spent in Brooklyn with my grandparents, we never once went to Coney Island.

In July of 1982, my mother, stepfather and I went to Cedar Point in Sandusky, Ohio. It was a couple of decades before it became known as America’s Roller Coast, but it was already an incredibly exciting place, especially to us. It was a great day! My stepfather, who was also NOT a Ride Warrior, declined to board the Blue Streak. This old wooden ride still stands, for over 60 years now, and I rode it a couple of months ago. It is probably the least impressive and least comfortable that Cedar Point has to offer today, but the pull of nostalgia is strong. We convinced my stepfather to ride the Gemini, a racing coaster, and he arrived at the finish line nearly catatonic with his eyes firmly shut. These two, plus the Corkscrew, which all of us refused to ride that day because it flips you upside down and we were certain we will fall out, are still in the park today.

Much calmer was the Wave Swinger, a swing ride that in the Old Country was known as “hanging carousel”, to distinguish from a merry-go-round. There was one at the Motorbuilders Park’ as well, so partially for sentimental reasons this gentle, scenic flight is something I never miss at any amusement park. The sensation of flying through the air, looking at everything around and below, having that time to really watch and enjoy is not to be missed. Most recently, I was on a version of it called Wellenflug, in Phantasialand, a theme park near Köln (Cologne), Germany. To be continued…