by Zoe Alice

The Danes in my class are very sheltered. They know all there is to know about Denmark right down to the last slice of rye bread, but nothing about the US except for whatever they learn from MTV. So when I tell them that I'm from Colorado, they assume I am either a cowgirl or a professional snowboarder. I go with snowboarder. Soon though, I realize that lying is overrated.

“You snowboard, so you can ice skate too, right?”

“Oh yes. Absolutely. Everyone in Colorado skates.”

“So you can come with us this weekend? To go ice skating?”

“Oh. Well, I not know. My foreign language skills tend to rapidly disappear when I get nervous.”

“Please? We want to see a professional do it.”

“Ok, I guess. Downtown I meet you?”

“See you tonight!

“Downtown.”

“Right. Downtown.”

That night, I arrive downtown and rent some ice skates. A voice inside of me is begging to confess and tell The Danes that I've never ice skated (or snowboarded) in my life, but I quickly shut it up and lower my weighted down legs into the ice. I spot a frozen fish in the water and wish I was with it.

I stretch my arms out in front of me and reach for something that's not there. I move forward, inch by inch, until suddenly my feet slide where I don't want them to and I fall. But the fall wasn't that bad and I realize that I'm having fun! I leave the frozen fish behind and teach myself to balance. Meanwhile, the Danes are watching from a safe distance.

“I thought she knew how to ice skate?”

“Maybe that's just the style in California.”

“Colorado.”

“Right. Colorado.”