My parents used to take me and my sister to Artxanda’s amusement park on special occasions. Now that I’m thinking about it, I guess I can see why my kids love Disneyland so much. It’s like Artxanda, but on steroids. My childhood park is no longer in use, but I still remember how awesome those hot-dogs tasted at the end of the day, or listening live to Mecano’s Me Cole.
However, my favorite part was going into the House of Mirrors. It was dark, the floors were uneven, and there were hundreds of mirrors all over the place. Ok, maybe not hundreds, but a bunch. Some would make you tall, others short or super fat. Some would give you a cone head. I would spend the most time in front of the one that made you look taller and thinner, like a super model. It was always a good time and an even better laugh. After all, I knew the mirrors were fixed and their reflection was only an illusion.
Now that I’m older, still short and looking like I want to fill Boise all on my own, I get to enjoy the mirrors and their distorted view of reality once in a while, except now they’re in my head and I don’t know I’m in the house until it is too late.
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