Always remember you like a child, girl

I think everyone should have a Danish childhood.

These kids are so free. They have no fear, no reservations, nothing but a need to explore. The same could be said for most children, I'm sure, but the difference here is that their parents and teachers appreciate their hunger for adventure and cultivate it. The kids at my practicum are under 3 years old, and they are far more independant than many American children of 6, 7, or perhaps 8 (I'm sorry I can't go into details. Policy.)

One of my favorite things about my host family's house in Dragør is the huge trampoline in the backyard. Tobias and Jonathan are up there whenever they have a free 15 minutes. Their favorite trick is to fall straight back, bounce, then jump up onto their feet again. They don't look down - they just fall, bounce, and land on their feet.

I'll spare you the obvious metaphor, but watching the boys has made me re-evaluate the way I live. I wouldn't say that I'm a fearful person or that I avoid risk or don't enjoy life or any such nonsense. What I would say is that I am afraid of falling.

Literally.

Re-learning how to ride a bike last week, I wobbled so terribly that Trine looked away. "If you think you're going to fall, you're going to fall," Jacob said.

I didn't see one of the funniest, most comically obscene signs in Copenhagen (a green cartoon woman with grenades for breasts - I'll upload a photo tomorrow) because I was too busy watching my feet on the cobblestones, making sure my heels didn't get caught in the cracks.

Last weekend, I took baby steps walking down from the old fort because the rotting wood felt a little too rickety underneath.

Danish people don't do this. I need to get over my literal fear of klutziness. If I fall, I fall. So what? Scraped knees build character and street cred. Plus, maybe taking more physical risks will lead to intellectual, emotional, experiential risks as well - who knows?

Yesterday, Robin and I got "pizza" (huge, thick blocks of Sicillian-style, folded in half, wrapped in wax paper, and served vertically. Not bad for 11 kr.) and wandered around Rådhusplasen. He says that, on a scale of 1-10, Danes are a 9.2 "Even New Yorkers don't rank that high!" he laughed, shunning his fellow downtown Manhattan intellectuals. We cited the healthy lifestyle, freedom from want, closeness to nature, love of food and culture, and general lack of neurosis as reasons the Danes collectively rock our socks. "I'm glad I came here for study abroad, because I really do think that life is better here," he said, "So when I go back to Swarthmore, and say that everything is better abroad, I won't sound like as much of a jerk because Copenhagen is really obsure. Anyone can talk about Paris or London, but Copenhagen? People just ask if that's in Sweden."

True story. These people deserve more global props.

We then went to an exhibit on Nordic children's books at town hall. They were beautiful, creative, funny, and fucked-up. We were especially captivated by the story about a dog who gets eaten by another dog, then gets pooped out, run over by a car, covered in blood and gore, and, finally, stitched back together. Could I make this up? Lordy, I hope not.

Later that day, I rode my bike to the airport. I enjoyed the view of the ocean, watched the cruise ships glide to Finland, and scattered a group of sparrows as I pedaled my 3-speed down the pavement. Then I heard a whirring noise, looked up, and saw a HUGE SAS plane directly overhead. It is the lowest I'd ever seen an aircraft fly. 10 minutes later, another plane came in for a landing - so we raced. I picked up the pace and flew my bike directly under the aircraft. This game continued through the end of "rush hour."

Exhausted, I came back to an empty house. Immediately, I hopped on the trampoline. I let myself fall blindly backwards, bounce, and land on my feet again.