Age is deceiving.
The guy sitting next to me on the plane ride from New York to Madrid fit the description of a spaniard preteen perfectly: dark hair parted down the middle, an overabundance of spicy cologne, and an overwhelming sense of pride in newly formed muscles. And, like a true travel enthusiast, he seemed to be enthralled with everything American. After noticing that he brought an embroidered jean jacket on the plane, I was convinced that this kid was not a day older than 14. Tourist or not, I can't imagine anyone over the age of 8 toting that thing around with pride.
My little buddy and I didn't talk during the entire flight. The only way I knew that he acknowledged me was by his choice in beverage. When the stewardess came around to hand out drinks, he always chose what I did. I wouldn't have noticed something so small usually, but in a plane ride that long by yourself, you starting picking up any and every small detail.
Late in the night, the stewardess came and asked us what we wanted to drink for the last time before they turned off the lights. Without much thought, I chose water and then turned to see if my hours-long observation held true. Mr. Macho-to-be started pointing towards the water, but then suddenly lifted his hand and began pointing to the top of the drink rack where the alcohol was. Apparently the stewardess had the same impression of my friend as I did and politely asked him how old he was. I could tell that rejection just itched at her lips. Mr. Lone Star Jean Jacket whipped out his passport like he was in a gun draw and shot it the steward’s direction promptly answering, “I twenty-six.” I don’t know whose jaw dropped faster: mine or the steward’s. Lesson learned?... Age guessers at Lagoon are in possession of some illegal magic.
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