Some 50 years ago, my father took me to his office in Washington, DC. I believe he was working for the Social Security Administration as a technical writer. I remember he held tightly onto my hand as we used a moving lift like this. 

The event was notable to young me for two reasons.

One, when I was little my father was not much of a hugger. He would make funny voices or play sports with me, but was not big on lap time or cuddles. He was perfectly comfortable hugging me hello and goodbye after I was an adult, and often initiated the hugs.

Two, my young brain imagined that the cars flipped upside down at the top and bottom of their route, and for years — decades even — I would imagine the Willy-Wonkaesque scene of me missing our last exit, rolling over at the top of the loop, and looking for my father as I tried again on the way back down.

It was not until my own kids were adults that learned how the so-called “pater noster” elevators really worked.