Wings For the Good Little Girl

Kelsey's Israel Blundering Confessional: Part 5 - The Finale

Brosef and his awesome handstand on Mount Carmel

We have reached the end of our blogscipade as well as the end of my silly stories (I'm sure I have more, I'm just not going to tell them all, lest we be here all year).

By the final day, we'd seen so much. My feet trotted upon the very spots history had made famous. I saw and did more than I ever have in my life. I made wonderful friends - family in their own way, really.  Of course, by this point I'd also made quite the fool of myself, as you may have read. (My elbow is perfectly fine by this point, thank you.)

Our final trip was through Caesarea Philippi - King Herod's Roman-esq home. One of his many palaces.  This was the location of the games in Israel, similar to the Roman games played in the Olympics.  Herod, it is said, is the first to suggest a prize for the second and third place winners - silver and bronze medals.

Pool cut from rock by Herod's Builders

All fascinating, wonderful, and breezy. You'd see why they wanted to be there. After Caesarea, we went to our final dinner, and after our final dinner... we went to the airport. To better be comfortable, I put my blonde hair in braids under my Dead Sea Hat. As I'm sure you know from Two Trips and a Loss, Brosef and I followed Owen nowhere.

Now, if you have been keeping up all week, you know from Sick Ain't Pretty On Me that I am dreading this flight. I don't want to get on this plane.  After my last experience, I'm trying to come up with a way to become an Israeli citizen and never come home...

Creepiest LONGEST millipede ever. Almost as long as my foot

Luckily, I was given a prescription anti-nausea pill and prayers of health.
Hallelujah...
Life saver.
I survived the flight.  I slept through part of it (red eye flight) and watched several movies for the rest of it (Here Comes the Boom - funny but not one I'd watch otherwise; Premium Rush - very interesting and I enjoyed it; The Hobbit - Already knew I loved it).

I'm sure you could imagine my excitement when we landed and I was still going strong - no need to be sick.   I pushed my braids behind me, straightened my hat, and stretched my muscles as we finally were allowed to stand. Bubbly as could be, I followed one of my other coworkers (We'll call her Joanne) whom I'd been by on the plane.  Her husband John was far ahead of us, so the two of us traipsed down the aisles and off the plane.

Little Brother Brosef, Big Brother Owen and I under one of the aqueduct arches at Caesarea

As we neared the entrance to plane, there was a man (either flight attendant or co-pilot) saying farewell as we passed.  Joanne gave him a nod, a thank you, and a smile.  He did likewise.  It was my turn, and I followed suit.

The elder smiled at me, eyes crinkling so the wrinkles on the sides deepened, and pressed something into my hand.  I thanked him as I glanced down at the little object he'd parted with.

Wings.

My special United Wings

I had just been handed wings.
You know, the kind they give to all kids 12 and under.
The ones who have been really good on such a long flight.
Such good kids.

And I was on of them.

As I stumbled into the connecting gate, I stared dumbstruck at my little plastic possession.
"Joanne." I said, face reddening in amused embarrassment. "He gave me wings."
"What?" Joanne spun around and stared at the little blue item I held out for her observation. For a second, and only one second, she was quiet.

Then the laughter began.

"JOHN!" She called ahead as soon as we saw him. "Kelsey got wings! WINGS! They think she's twelve! I bet they thought she was our daughter."
The laughter continued.
I laughed too, though I was still a bit horrified.  You see, it isn't the first time I've had someone question my age.
"How old do you think I am?" I once asked an intern at work where I have been FULL TIME for 2 years. She's 19, and knows my younger brother. She looked  me up and down.
"Eighteen, nineteen tops."
"I'm twenty-three."
"No you aren't."

Do you know how often I pull out my driver's license to prove myself in these kind of situations?

This is essentially the look - add  braids.
Do you think I look 12?

There I was, holding wings, laughing with two individuals whose oldest son was 4-5 years my junior, holding my little plastic wings.
Brosef, who wasn't even carded on his 21st birthday (and wouldn't have been before then), had an even more jovial response.
"Ah! HA HA! It's the braids. No. No it isn't. It's you and your face. You do look twelve!"
Owen was kinder. He never flat out said I looked twelve, but he did say "That's the best thing I've heard. So funny."

Stick with me, blogosphere...I'm the fountain of youth.
Yet as I sat there, staring at my new plastic contraption, I realized something.

It was the perfect end to my perfectly hilarious trip.

Now it's your turn - what's the worse mistake others have made about YOUR age? Too old? Too young? Thought your mother was your sister or vice versa?

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In fact, I've had so much fun, I'll give away a second place prize of an Israel cross, a monkey, and a CR Smith CD.
So comment away! Winners will be announced next week!