Everywhere I walked in the park, the same word kept turning up on signs.
FLY
The arrow always pointed deeper in. I had read a few forum threads on the train down—people throwing around “best in Europe” the way people do online—but I hadn’t bothered to learn the details. I just knew the name, and that I was here alone, and that I had a window of time that was fast closing.
I followed the signs past a carousel and through Little Berlin, where the facades tried hard to look like brick that had always been there. On the far side, the theme changed. I took a left into a tunnel and came out in a different world.
Copper pipes ran along the walls and overhead. Gears the size of coffee tables hung as decoration. Switches, gauges, and riveted panels climbed the buildings like ivy made of metal. Above me, the roller coaster track threaded through it all, looping between rooftops and crossing itself in places I couldn’t map from the ground.
A train of cars shot past with a dry, fast rattle. The riders didn’t sit on top. They hung beneath, legs dangling, bodies tilted forward like someone had decided flying should look a little undignified.
~
The line started innocently and then kept going. It wasn’t crowded so much as long, a slow walk through themed staircases and corridors that kept turning just when I expected it to end.
We filed into a pre-ride room where a video played without words. It was all gestures and diagrams: where to put your hands, how to brace your legs, what not to bring. The line moved too fast for me to watch it all. I caught the general panic of rules and then got pushed onward.
In the next hallway, an attendant handed me an electronic wristband and pointed me toward lockers. The lockers covered the walls in an L-shape, each door a flat rectangle with a number and a small light. Everyone moved like they already knew the choreography. I picked one near the corner where the crowd thinned, put in my camera and hat, and kept my phone—I didn’t know why.
The slow-moving scenic line turned into a real queue. Ten minutes later it ended at a security station: metal detectors, guards, the whole airport impression—almost a joke, considering the ride’s name.
It stopped being a joke when it was my turn.
The guard gestured at my pocket. He found my phone immediately, held it up, and pointed back down the corridor.
I laughed, because what else do you do, and then I walked back to my locker with the wristband blinking at me. I put the phone away. Then I joined the end of the line again and watched the same ten minutes play out a second time, this time with nothing to distract me but the sound of people shuffling forward.
At last, the station.
~<br></br>
The track hung from the ceiling. A train came in and braked to a stop, the cars twisting sideways, so each seat faced the platform. I could see the harnesses and the leg restraints waiting open.
When my turn came, I stepped into a seat that felt halfway between a bicycle and a hammock. The restraint clamped over my calves. I pulled the chest harness down until it clicked. It was thinner than I expected—secure without being bulky.
The car rotated. The floor became a wall. My body tipped forward and then settled into the harness. For a second I stared straight down at the platform and the neat line of people waiting, their faces angled up.
Then we moved.
The train slid out of the dark interior and into daylight. Wind hit my cheeks. The track pulled me into a turn and then another, smooth enough that my stomach lagged behind my eyes. The buildings rose and fell around me in quick flashes: copper, brick, painted windows, a pocket of sky, and then another rooftop.
I laughed into the wind, my eyes watering so fast it felt like crying—which was inconvenient and also true.
For a moment I could see the track ahead threading between two buildings. Then we dropped, and the world tilted again.