Cartoonville in SkyRanch Tagaytay works especially well if you’re an adult. Which is surprising. Most places stop trying with you around 30.

Everywhere, it’s padded. Which seems like it’s for the kids. Wrong. Kids bounce. The padding is for us. Very thoughtful. Cartoonville isn’t asking if you’re happy as assume you’ll try.

Immediately, everything is smiling at you. Mascots telling you how to feel. Very bossy. A Roblox waved at me for too long. I waved back. It felt like a standoff. Nobody won.

There’s a slide. Twenty-five feet? Looks harmless. This is for toddlers who call it fun. I call it “nice.”

That’s the confidence phase. Very dangerous phase.

You climb and the slide slowly reveals itself like a bad idea. But nobody was checking his phone on the ramp. Think about that.

At the top, you perch on a big, cheerful inflatable donut designed to look supportive while clearly planning something reckless. 

Then your feet weren’t touching the ground anymore. And very adult thoughts like, “OK. Steep. But manageable; length is...” and wham! Not slid. Launched. Like a flying saucer. Spin. Spin. Faster. “Why am I spinning? Who approved the spin?”

My shoes scraped the sides. The kids’ shoes didn’t touch anything. That’s youth: fewer points of contact with reality.

The slide doesn’t last long but — wow! — what a ride. You don’t win it as surrender to it. You let out a child’s scream because you didn’t expect it to work.

I stood up. Took a second. The children didn’t notice. They were already elsewhere. That’s how time works.

You leave Cartoonville with no mascot escort. You already look dealt with. Naturally, Sky Ranch does the responsible thing and sends you to the zipline.

They strapped me into the harness very carefully. Lots of straps. You realize adulthood is just agreeing to be secured by strangers and realizing falling is only terrifying when you think it’s your fault.

I asked how long the ride was. “Very fast, sir.” That’s never an answer as a warning by someone who would recommend it to his enemies.

Halfway across, the wind hits your face like applause you didn’t earn. You stop thinking. Amazing relief, thinking is heavy, until your feet hit the platform hard enough to feel real again.

There’s this quiet afterward where your thoughts haven’t caught up yet. Then you see it. Super Viking.

You think: “That can’t possibly go higher.” That’s when it goes higher. 

I bought something fried on a stick and felt immediately bonded to the bench. Not hungry. Anchored. The bench and I were on the same page.

But then you get convinced you don’t want to leave while still thinking about it. That’s when rides follow you home. You wake up at 3 am wondering. Very unhealthy.

You finish the food — that’s important. You don’t rush this part. You stand up slowly. Strong stand.  Pretending it was about digestion.

It’s completely different up there. From the ground it looked violent; at that height you see Tagaytay while screaming. Premium panic. Beautiful. Very unfair to other parks.

Eventually fear behaves. That’s the trick: Fear that needs boundaries. It’s craftsmanship; that’s SkyRanch knowing where it is and what it is doing to you. Who needs magic when reality shows up like that?

The best ride is the pause afterward. Other parks don’t allow that. They make you climb just to stare at walls. Very prison behavior.

At SkyRanch, you see something and remember why you went up.