In the hierarchy of family vacation attractions, there are Eiffel Towers. There are national parks. There are overpriced museums. And then, there are… labyrinths. The year was 2014. Not quite before the age of smartphones, but not yet at the point where everyone was glued to a screen, and importantly in this case, able to summon endless Google reviews at the tap of a button. It was the latter part of the tourist dark ages. My family decided to bring twelve-year-old me and my younger sister to Montreal, Canada, for a two-week summer getaway; to see the sights and visit my grandmother. But five Texan people crammed into her tiny old apartment with no A.C., where the best-case scenario was a shared futon mattress, was not going to cut it—so this time, we splurged on a hotel in Old Montreal. In a whole new part of town, we got to see sights we had never beheld. So on a fateful, muggy day, we made our way to the city’s old port, where we first laid eyes on the labyrinth. “A labyrinth!” I exclaimed, pitifully, naively. “Just like in my Greek mythology book!” The fear began to grow in my parents’ eyes as they realized they might have to do a dreaded children’s activity, where they’d be horrendously overcharged just to eat mediocre pizza and watch their kids ignore the natural scenery in favor of some plastic monstrosity. “There are so many other things to do,” my mom pleaded. “Look, we could go on the ferris wheel. Or go see those mimes over there. I bet you’ve never seen a real mime before!” “I don’t want to go see a mime, I want to see the labyrinth!” My younger sister backed me up, stamping her feet against the cobblestone road. After forcing us to walk two miles to the port, our parents knew it wasn’t a good time to test us. So they accepted the loss, and started towards the giant rectangular warehouse that read ‘S.O.S. LABYRINTHE’ in giant white letters on the side. With a name like that, who wouldn’t go in? The cashier slunk around behind the desk, scowling at the unsuspecting line of people waiting behind a barrier to purchase labyrinth tickets. She was a teenager, with piercings in her eyebrows and spiky pink hair. When someone swiped their credit card or handed over colorful Canadian bills to pay, she did not smile. Instead, she stared menacingly through the cloudy plastic barrier, her eyes screaming ‘TURN BACK’ as if this was the labyrinth from my Greek myths. When there’s a plastic barrier to separate a clerk from customers, it usually means the service or material you’re providing could be contentious. Could spark some sort of conflict. A plastic barrier at a children’s attraction should’ve tipped us off. “How much for a family of four?” My dad asked the Grim Reaper. “One hundred dollars American, sir,” she replied in a thick French-Canadian accent. One interesting fact about Montreal, and Quebec as a whole, is that their accent is pretty much unintelligible to fellow French speakers. They go to France, and people think they’re from Jamaica, or Italy, or some other place where they roll their R’s and speak through their teeth as if they’re constantly clutching a cigarette between them (they are). So understandably, my dad had to double check. “One hundred dollars?” he exclaimed, clutching his wallet like pearls. “Surely you mean Canadian?” “Twenty five United States dollars per person, sir,” she barked through the glass, her voice projecting impressively. “This is a high quality labyrinth. It was built for your pleasure and amusement, by Canadian longshoremen one hundred years ago. This is a one of a kind experience.” “You really want to do this, kids?” My dad looked at my sister and I, his eyes desperate. It was our last chance to turn back. But our greed for the prize surely awaiting at the center of the maze won out, and we nodded vigorously, like a pair of clueless bobbleheads walking into the blazing inferno of Hell. The second the girl took my dad’s money, she ushered him towards a rusty blue door that had seemingly materialized out of nowhere. The customers behind us had already taken our place, so there was no time to make sure—we just walked through the door blindly, not knowing whether we were entering the maze or accidentally infiltrating a janitor’s closet. It opened into a small, stuffy room lined with metal bleachers, the kind you find on an elementary school’s kickball field. Tourists from all over the world sat on those bleachers, speaking every language except French. No locals - another red flag. The international buffet of chatter died down after a few minutes, when two women burst through the blue door on roller blades. We froze in our seats, our eyes darting wildly as they followed the skating women, who circled the room like it was a Formula One race, their baggy overalls flapping in the still and putrid air. “Beware!” One of them crowed as she did her laps, flailing her arms about like an inflatable car dealership man. “You have entered the labyrinth!” “Do NOT follow the map you have been given!” The other one added, referring to the note cards scattered on the bleachers, which featured a labyrinth map and the words ‘S.O.S. LABYRINTHE MAP.’ My parents frowned. The tourists from China and India in the room were staring blankly at the roller skaters, glancing from them, to the maps, to the door. “You may NOT exit the labyrinth until you reach the end!” The first skater screeched, as if reading our thoughts. By this point, we were getting cold feet—figuratively, of course. There was no air conditioning or ventilation, not even a fan, so our feet were actually getting sweaty and sticky in our socks. A small breeze brushed against our sweltering faces as skaters #1 and 2 collaboratively pushed open the second door, a red one this time. “ENTRY, PLEASE!” They screamed in unison, waving and pointing so everyone in the room understood. We didn’t need to be told twice. Off the bleachers we leapt, like jack-in-the-boxes, eager to find the end of the maze just so we could breathe in that first wonderful gulp of fresh Canadian air. That gulp did not reach us once we entered the maze. The warehouse was huge, and the ceilings were high, but we might as well have been locked in a port-a-potty. Like the mobile toilet, the walls of this labyrinth were made of smelly blue plastic, and no more than six feet tall. The sheets of plastic were thin, and this maze was definitely not a relic of the past. It smelled like one, though. It smelled like six-year-old, crusting limburger cheese—mixed with stale baby vomit and rubber. “No way, Jose.” My dad immediately crossed his arms and stopped in his tracks. “This is not a joke, kids. I need to find the exit, now.” “I think there’s only one way out,” I said, the fear finally creeping into my chest. A hydra or a minotaur could charge at me, chew me up, and digest me, and it would probably smell better than between the blue plastic walls of the maze. We walked with purpose, as my mom always said we should. The narrow corridors grew smaller, and became blocked by rows of decaying punching bags. The Chinese tourists were stopped in the middle, kneeling down and observing these bags. There was some writing on them, and they probably thought it was a clue. It said ‘MADE IN CHINA.’ “We need to pass,” my dad yelled, desperation oozing out of his voice. I had never seen him that way before. “PASS!” He beckoned for us to push past them, putting aside his morals out of nothing but sheer necessity. My younger sister trampled over their son, who toppled onto the sticky floor of the maze. The family yelled at us in Mandarin as we pushed through the bags, running for dear life. We were monsters. We had no idea which way to go. The labyrinth had no rhyme or reason, no clues or theme. We followed the sound of other human voices to decide which way to go, turning right and left, pushing through more punching bags, and corridors ‘blocked off’ by haphazardly-hung pieces of rope. We had been going for about ten minutes when we encountered a little girl, about three years old, curled up on the floor, crying. “What do we do?” My mom said, concerned. “Honey, do you need help?” The girl said nothing, but continued sobbing. “Maybe she’s an obstacle,” I suggested. My parents glared at me. “The roller skaters will find her,” my dad finally said, rushing to the right. His face almost had a greenish tinge, but I couldn’t tell if it was real or a reflection of the blue plastic walls in the dim and dingy light. “PULL, PULL, PULL!” A group of people’s voices grew louder, summoning us like moths to a flame. When we reached them, we witnessed a startling sight: there were prop prison bars cutting off the corridor, and a woman had gotten totally stuck in them. She was twisted up like a bent paper clip, her rear end pointing towards us and her arms sticking out through the other side of the bars at odd angles. The people all held onto her legs, trying to yank her free from the hyper-realistic prop. “Turn back!” My dad whisper-shouted. “Turn around! This is the wrong way!” For a man who told us to always help others, he wasn’t really practicing what he preached. I made a note to myself that morals could be sold out in certain situations: war, probably… famines… and S.O.S. Labyrinthe. Perhaps it stood for ‘Sell our souls.’ “A door!” A man exclaimed, his voice sparkling with elation as if he had just seen a miracle. And lo and behold, there was indeed a door. It was a tiny metal door that read ‘SORTIE,’ exit in French. I half expected my dad to fall to his knees and pray, but there was no time for that. His lungs were giving out. The man, our family, and a gaggle of people behind us all rushed towards that little door, rattling the blue plastic walls into a frenzy. “STOP!” A shrill voice rang out, crushing our dreams. As if by a stroke of evil magic, overalls girl #1 roller-skated in front of the door, blocking it with her arms. “You may not leave! You must finish the labyrinth.” “Listen, lady.” My dad stepped forward, his voice assuming a tone I had never before heard. “I’m a doctor. The air in this place is gonna cause health issues. You want a lawsuit? Keep blocking us in.” I heard her gulp, like in a cartoon. Somehow even the gulp had a French-Canadian accent. The crowd must have intimidated her, because she rolled away fast. “Help!” She yelled in French as she ditched us, probably skating to the overalls-roller-skater panic room. “People are escaping!” The father from the Chinese family rushed forward and helped the other dads push the rusty little door open; it was the only accurate historical element in the whole maze. When it finally budged, the sunlight blinded us, like a vision from Heaven. “Never again!” My mom immediately said, not wasting a second before seizing the opportunity for a lecture. “Never again will I do one of these tourist trap kids places. You see? I was right! Remember this the next time you want to go to Chuck E. Cheese!” We were too busy gasping for air to answer. The sign loomed above our heads on the side of the warehouse, S.O.S. Maybe this is an obvious thing, and we lacked the slightest semblance of self preservation, but when someone tells you who they are, believe them.