I believe there are a select few of early childhood memories that'll last with you for your entire lifetime. Like that one snowy day in winter when my dad pushed me down a hill on a wooden sled, before first teaching me how to steer the damn thing around the upcoming trees.
This week, I was reminded of another one.
I was about four or five years old. It was a cloudy, cold Saturday morning and me, my sisters and my parents were walking towards the city. Crossing a bridge over the city's main river (because ever city has a river) I put both my hands in my pockets, mainly because I'd seen some older boys do that and I figured that was what the cool kids did.
"Don't put your hands in your pockets," my mom warned me repeatedly.
Near the top, I vividly remember looking sideways over the railing of the bridge and thinking, "I could so easily jump off this thing right now" while simultaneously being frightened of the height.
That was right before I stumbled over a loose paving stone and face-planted my forehead onto the pavement, prompting a profuse crying fit and a trip to the local fish shop for some ice.
I've never lost that fear of heights. It's especially prevalent when staring down high bridges with midget-sized railings, as was the case recently in Portugal.