People in general seem to like roller coasters.
Or perhaps it’s just that the people who do like roller coasters are much more vocal about it than the people who don’t. Because once you’ve reached adulthood, it’s kind of embarrassing to admit that you find the type of amusement that most eight-year-olds consider riding to be a primary goal in life to be absolutely terrifying.
I myself am not much of a fan. I’m fine on say, Space Mountain, but I hate the feeling that you get when you suddenly drop precipitously, that stomach-in-your-throat sensation that is evidently the point of most roller coasters, so if I can see where the track is heading and/or I don’t have a former Disney “cast member” among my entourage to assure me that there are no free falls ahead, I won’t go. While this has historically been a source of minor annoyance to my parkgoing companions (mostly because I hem and haw and stand in line and chicken out at the last minute, muttering, “If only someone had a Xanax!), it actually has one very real benefit: I am an excellent and willing holder of purses.
The New York, New York Hotel and Casino has a roller coaster on its grounds. My friend Gilian and a couple of our coworkers were extremely keen to ride it, so we decided to swing by before dinner one night (and by before dinner I mean at about 9:30 PM, because we were in Vegas, after all). The entrance to the coaster is buried deep inside the casino, inside a labyrinthine arcade, and when we reached it, there was a fairly extensive line. I had briefly considered mustering up the courage to ride, but the courage I had in mind was the liquid kind and I feared that bourbon and roller coasters don’t mix. Gilian handed me her purse as they took their places, and I headed to the exit to wait for them.