Dorothy M.
Yelp
Having processed the twenty-four hours of shock and self-loathing that haunted me following our journey on the Christmas Hobo Railroad, I find that the only way forward for me emotionally is to write a review so that other innocent families can be spared the folly of our mistake. The gift shop and ticket counter is, far and away, the nicest space you'll be standing in for the entire evening, so you might as well enjoy the moments you spend crammed in there waiting for your golden ticket. Never mind that your kids are screaming at you to buy them a bubble-blowing dinosaur train: at least this building is up to fire code. The rest of your journey is another story. Ticket in hand, you'll file onto a train that looks and smells like a middle school locker room. Once the gremlins have been safely seated in their nooks, the train departs and the real magic begins. A ten-minute, two-mile-per-hour ride takes us past a MacDonald's and a self-storage unit on our way to Santa's sweatshop. On our particular journey, one family actually forced the train to stop so they could get off at a random intersection. At first, I thought they'd had some sort of family emergency. Now I suspect that they simply got word of what lay ahead and made the wiser choice. Along the way--joy of joys--you're given a pre-filled "Letter to Santa" where the little squibs can scrawl their name in a Mad Lib-style blank for the big man. Thought the magic had reached it's peak? Oh contraire: you're allowed to keep the pencil. That's right, ladies and gents, this trip just paid for itself. Gradually the suburban wasteland recedes, giving way to a ragged collection of last year's yard decorations blinking their mismatched lights. Filing off onto a muddy cow path, you and the kiddos are directed to "mail" those letters to Santa through a slot in the wall of a questionable outbuilding that, in the off season, probably doubles as an abattoir. It might have just been me, but I fancied I could hear the shredders running as the little tykes thrust their handwritten dreams into the slots. At last the pilgrimage leads us to the top of a hill, where six porta-potties line the doors of a poorly-maintenanced Methodist revival tent. The smell of mold smacks you right in the nostrils as you walk in, past some haunted paintings and dusty Christmas displays from your least favorite grandma's attic, and finally into a stadium-seated lecture hall whose carpets are soggy with generations of snowy sludge. Once inside and seated on the floor (Chairs!? That just wouldn't be Christmas magic!), we're treated to the unrehearsed ramblings of four homeschooled elves who clearly have nowhere else to go. Teased with the idea of Santa, we must first endure half a dozen prerecorded singalong songs whole lyrics are so foreign to the elves that their lips don't even attempt to synchronize. After that, a strange beslippered woman in a pajama hat reads The Night Before Christmas to the restless gaggle, berating her hostage audience with a strangely aggressive rendition of this classic story that we did not come to hear. Finally, now that all of the children are so tired and confused that they no longer remember why they came or want anything more than to slip into a blessed oblivion, the Big Man emerges from somewhere in the bowels of this musty hell. Cheerful despite all odds, he chucklingly informs us that he's going to walk around and shake every child's hand and while his demented elves lead us in "a few more songs!" As grim expressions settle onto the faces of each adult, the faces of hardworking men and women who must accept that they've been robbed, fair and square, Santa cheerful prolongs our collective agony for another half hour or so. Was it really just thirty minutes, or a whole separate lifetime of tortured embarrassment? It's hard to be sure and, in the end, it doesn't really matter. The damage has been done. As we file out the creaking door and down the sludgy hill, past teenage elves waving at us like feral camp councilors, many of the parents seem to be telling themselves that this was all ok. That they hadn't just stared into an abyss of cash-mongering Christmas absurdity, and been made to thank the people that did it to them. But, stepping onto the train with your softly weeping Children, you know the truth: that sometimes, even well-meaning parents make dire misjudgments, and some of those are for keeps. Your children might still believe in Santa but, for you and for them, that belief will henceforth be tinged with confusion and fear. Beware the Hobo Railroad. For about the same amount of money you could to see the Nutcracker in Boston, or go out to a nice dinner, or put the kids to bed and house a nice bottle of wine and forget, for just a blessed moment, that you ever considered buying tickets for this cursed train.