Visiting a theme park, any theme park, something is bound to go wrong. Too much humanity crowds into too small a space, adrenaline levels rise, people eat bad food, glucose levels spike, trends in wearing identical matched clothing magnify bodily imperfections to frightening levels (whether Youth Group Smiley-Face t-shirts or double velour sequened sweatsuits).
Yet the trip my family took to Hershey Park was almost perfect. We tasted chocolate, dark, darker, milk, spiced = yum. We bought chocolate. We sipped hot coco. We made our own candy bars. Double yum.
And then we took the little indoor tramcar ride through what we thought would be the machine-shop workings of the ‘real’ Hershey’s plant. We wanted to see the Kit-Kats and other delicacies in their moment of nugaty, carmely, chocolatey birth.
What we got instead were singing animatronic cows, sometimes (oddly enough) with their swishing, dusty butts turned toward us, all amid a flashing frenzy of lights, a Willy-Wonka-Meets-Ann-of-Green-Gables abomination from which all of us (but especially my stout and very nearly manly sons) fled as quick as the seatbelts and lapbars unclicked at the end of the ride.
Go there. They’ve built it. See it for yourselves. And certainly build a candy bar of your own choosing. But beware the cows.