and then once you are totally overwhelmed by the room full of carousel horses on the walls (because the overwhelmingly huge carousel itself is not apparently enough) the TOUR CONTINUES.
The signs say TOUR CONTINUES. With arrows indicating where you should go next. (Because, let's be frank, it isn't always clear.) Over and over again. In the dazzle-paint-floored flavorless-pizza concession stand in the middle, TOUR CONTINUES. At the end of the endless stream of unlabelled dollhouses, TOUR CONTINUES. After an eternity of puppets and clown things and circus dioramas, TOUR CONTINUES. After a room full of cars and hearse-tank-omotives and giant rube goldberg machine and Test-Your-Strength carnival machines, TOUR CONTINUES.
You see the same employee for the fourth time sitting placidly, unmoving, but each time in a totally different place, enough to make you question whether he is a clone or doppelganger or what. TOUR CONTINUES.
At last: FINAL EXIT, says the door. Your eyes meet the wholesome grey and green and white of the stillness of the dying grip of winter in rural Wisconsin, colors you are scarcely able to name or reckon with after a lifetime of garish red carpet and lurid yellow lights.
And the mysteriously snaking concrete path leads back to the gift shop. It sells things. What are things, you wonder. What are museums. What am I doing with my life.
House on the rock: a good experience.