Danish Accent

Denmark for Dummies 2013 - A Superficial Guide to the Happiest Nation on Earth (If You Don't Count Norway And Why Would You?)

2013-03-28T13:01:00.002-07:00

Winner of www.Denmark.net's International Blog Contest, 2009. Updated version, March 2013.

All Danes are blond and gorgeous. And every single of us have a cabin with a view of a lake. No wonder the whole world wants to be Danish, but don't get your hopes up. We're very protective of our gene pool.

You're smart.

You're planning to go to Denmark.

You've always wanted to visit our country because you know that it's the most exciting nation in the world. You tell yourself, "Why would I want to go to Paris, New York or the Himalayas when I can go rock climbing on Falster?"

"Yes, I'm trendy. I want to visit Denmark because the Danes are so eco-friendly with their bikes, cuisine, and state of the art dildos. And most important, they're the happiest and most trusting people in the world."

Yes, that's right.

In 2008 Denmark was named the happiest nation on the planet. And I'm living proof of that. Right now this Danish novelist is sitting in cozy Copenhagen staring at the sleet, enjoying the 43 degrees of happy spring.

Come and visit us, will you?

And please bring all your credit cards because you're damn well going to need them!

GUIDE TO DENMARK
Here's a superficial introduction to my Southern Scandinavian Paradise. Enjoy.

Name: Denmark (Danmark)

Inhabitants: 5.6 million

Capital: Copenhagen (1.5 million)

Ranking: Most livable city in the world (Monocle, British Magazine, 2008)

Other Top Rankings in the World That We Take Pride In:
a) Most trusting people in the world (April 2011)
b) Best restaurant in the world (Noma, 2010, 2011, 2012)
c) Most Pork consumption per capita (not counting your neighborhood sheikh)

Language: Danish.

Government: Constitutional monarchy.

Currency: Kroner. (5.7 DKK to a US dollar)

Religion: No, thank you.

Name of Queen: Margrethe II.

Name of Prime Minister Helle Thorning-Schmidt. As popular as chlamydia, just prettier.

Size: The 8th biggest country in the world if you count Greenland. (Always count Greenland).

Weather: Not really.

Unemployment Rate: Rising

Hospitality If You're Not White: Falling

Crime per Capita: Fourth lowest in the world.

Corruption: Second lowest in the world.

Average Consumption of Beer per Capita: Fourth highest in the world.

Famous Dead Danes: Hans Christian Andersen, Søren Kierkegaard (philosopher), King Canute (conquered England), Tycho Brahe (conquered the universe), Isak Dinesen (conquered Africa), Karen Blixen (conquered Meryl Streep), Vitus Bering (explorer), Niels Bohr (physicist), Georg Jensen (design), Carl Nielsen (composer), Carl Dreyer (film director), Victor Borge (comedian), Hamlet (Shakespeare's boy toy)

Famous Living Danes: Caroline Wozniacki (fading tennis star, known for her Sienna Williams' impersonations), Lars Ulrich(founder of Metallica), Anders Fogh Rasmussen (General Secretary of NATO; he'll be happy to bomb any country America tells him to), Helena Christensen (model, unfortunately not in porn), Peter Høeg (author), Jussi Adler-Olsen (like Stieg Larsson, just alive), Michael Laudrup, Peter Schmeichel (soccer players), Nicklas Bendtner (happy drunk), Lars von Trier (film director), René Redzepi (chef)

Danes Who Ought to Be Dead: Jante.

Famous Half Danes: Viggo Mortensen, Scarlett Johansson, Ludvig Holberg.

Biggest Danish Film Star of All Time: Asta Nielsen (Die Asta from the silent age)

Best Mads Mikkelsen: Mads Mikkelsen

Danish TV-Series That Have Conquered the World and Perhaps Mars, Too: The Killing (Forbrydelsen), The Castle (Borgen), and The Bridge (Broen, co-production with Sweden)

Most Popular Danish Children Song of All Time: Barbie Girl by Aqua

Most Famous Danish Building: The Opera House in Sydney (Jørn Utzon)

Danish Imperialism: Lego, Maersk, Ecco, Vesta, Bang and Olufsen, Carlsberg, Tuborg.

Daily Smokers: 10% of population. (All of them will be sitting on your lap when you go to an outdoor café)

Obesity Rate: 22% of population.

Best Danish Food: Moss, lichen, and soil mixed with bone marrow from an animal you don't want to eat. (Noma, world's best restaurant)

Denmark's Claim to Fame in Spain, Greece & Cyprus: Blond girls with herpes.

Denmark's Claim to Fame in the Far East: Badminton.

Denmark's Claim to Fame in the Middle East: Cartoons.

Denmark's Claim to Fame in Great Britain: Bacon & The Killing (Forbrydelsen) starring Sofie Gråbøl and her sweater.

Most Important Danish Invention of All Time: The atomic bomb (Niels Bohr)

Denmark's Biggest Contribution to American Sports: Morten Andersen, the all-time leading scorer in the NFL.

Best Tourist Attraction If You're Into Knights in Shining Armour: Frederiksborg castle, Hillerød and Kronborg, Helsingør (Hamlet's castle)

Best Tourist Attraction If You're Eight Years Old or Behaving Like It: Legoland.

Best Tourist Attraction If You're Eighty Years Old or Behaving Like It: Tivoli.

Most Overrated Tourist Attraction: The Little Mermaid.

This is the kind of abuse we Danes have to tolerate every day: Foreigners who fondle our national treasure as if she were a common strumpet. Shameless, that's what it is.

Time of Glory I: When the Danish vikings conquered England in the 11th century.

Time Of Glory II: When Denmark won the European Championship in football (soccer) in 1992 and the whole country behaved like a frat party.

Most Beautiful Cities in Denmark: Copenhagen, Helsingør (Elsinore), Ærøskøbing, Faaborg, Ribe, Skagen, Svaneke, and Christiania (if you still think that Che Guevara and bean bag chairs are cool)

Places to Avoid at All Costs Unless You Have A Secret Death Wish: Mørke, Ringsted, Brøndby, Fisketorvet.

Best Months to Visit the Land of the Danes: From late May to mid-September.

Best Month to Commit Suicide Because It's Dark, Dreary, and Everybody Wish They Were in Thailand: January.

Best Danish Traits: Tolerance, sense of humor, informality.

Worst Danish Traits: Intolerance, pettiness, self-satisfied melancholy.

What You'll Miss the Most If You're an American Visiting Denmark: TV anchors with perfect teeth.

What You'll Miss the Most If You're Italian: Bread and Berlusconi.

What You'll Miss the Most If You're Norwegian: Norway

Most Beautiful Area of Denmark: The Silkeborg lake district in Jutland and the island of Bornholm.

Most Stupid Thing to Say to a Dane: Now, which part of Germany are you from again?

Second Most Stupid Thing to Say to a Dane: Sweden is my favorite Scandinavian country.

Enjoy your stay. And tourists, please forgive Copenhagen for looking like Pompeii. We're building a Metro that we don't need ...

Copyright, Peter H. Fogtdal, Danish Accent, 2008, 2009, 2011, 2012, 2013,

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What If the Vatican Was Overrun By Rats and One of the Cardinals Was a Transvestite Dying in His Bed? (It's All True According to Roberto Pazzi)

2013-03-13T11:50:00.000-07:00

What goes on in a conclave?

The whole world has been asking that for almost a century, but Italian novelist Roberto Pazzi has the answer. About ten years ago he wrote a brilliant, surreal novel called Conclave. It's been sold to more than twenty countries, and if you read it you'll understand why, because it's funny, symbolic, and deeply serious.

I became friends with Roberto Pazzi in Montreal in 2009 when both of us were speakers at an international festival for European literature. It turned out that we had a lot in common. Both of us are spiritual people that don't care much for organized religion and dogma. And we seem to laugh at the same things.

Our events took place at the new, sexy library in downtown. I would love to lie and tell you that hundreds of locals showed up with Italian and Danish flags, but it was fun nevertheless, especially listening to Roberto who is a fan of Proust and hardcore Pluto aspects.

In CONCLAVE, the cardinals are locked up for months, then for years, but still can't make a decision. The world outside grows impatient, but inside the Vatican time is suspended, and things quickly become very surreal.

The Sixtine Chapel gets infested with rats and spiders, so the Church has to introduce cats and chicken to kill them off.

A hot tub is constructed so the aging cardinals don't get bored. The Americans go jogging to stay sane; an African cardinal introduces black magic and vanishes miraculously; the Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith is found dead in women's clothes.

Read this Kafkaesque novel. It was a big hit in Italy but sold about eleven copies in the US. I hope it's getting a revival right now.

Conclave was translated by Oonagh Stransky and came out in America in 2003 from Zoland Books. The picture on top is of Roberto Pazzi and me. Roberto is on the left.

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SOS Children's Villages: Sponsor Uncle Just Loved Visiting His Kid in Bangalore, India

2012-12-23T02:22:00.000-08:00

Sponsor Uncle has a lovely daughter in Bangalore, India.

Her name is Keerthana, and she has lived in the local SOS village since she was three. Keerthana is ten years old, soon to be eleven, and she has a rich life with a mother and ten other kids in a nice house. Keerthana is probably the most quiet and understated of the bunch----very appropriate since her Sponsor Uncle is a bit of a showboat.

Sponsor Auntie couldn't make the trip to Southern India, but she's proud of Keerthana, too. We had bought her a nice gift: an orange bag with crayons, pens, and a big notebook. Keerthana was very pleased since she likes to draw pictures of nature. She is good at running, too---a talent she luckily didn't put to use when Sponsor Uncle visited ...

During my stay Keerthana glowed in her beautiful dress. And so did her silly Sponsor Uncle who had a lot of fun with her great, naughty siblings. If I could, I would have stuffed them all in my suitcase and brought them back with me, but India has strict rules against that, unfortunately.

When Sponsor Uncle left the SOS Village to go back to his writer's residency,Sangam House he was moved beyond words. But his Indian cab driver soon got him down to earth.

"You pay $40 a month for an Indian kid?" he asked looking at me like I was some kind of a moron.

"Yes, and I love it."

"I can get you five kids for that price," he said and drove me into the heavy fumes of the Bangalore traffic.

Well, thanks to the many SOS Children's Villages around the world, thousands of orphans and poor kids can sleep safely at night and get an education in loving surroundings.

And you can sponsor one of them as well, if you like. There are SOS Villages around the world. SOS is active in 133 countries, and you can read about it here.

The Abominable Showman Lost His Heart to Nepal and the Tibetans in Boudha

2012-12-06T00:30:00.000-08:00

I totally lost my heart to Nepal and the Tibetan community in Boudha.

I was in town to do two readings at an international writers' festival that actually was cancelled, but since a lot of us had received grant money to attend, ten of us showed up, anyway, including Vikum Seth from India, slam poet Sarah Kay from New York, and my Danish colleague Sally Altschuler.

The brilliant director of the Literary Jatra, Suvani Singh quickly arranged a lot of events for us, and to my surprise they were all well attended. Sarah Kay kicked some serious ass in Thalem, Vikum Seth disappeared from the face of the earth, and I presented The Tsar's Dwarf and my take on writing historical novels for a large group of wonderful writers, poets, and journalists at ICER college. And I read at the Storytellers' Union along with Sally Altschuler and five local storytellers.

When I wasn't working I walked around Boudha outside Kathmandu in awe, getting up at dawn to circle around one of the world's biggest stupas in the company of Tibetan monks. I loved it and was incredibly moved by the whole experience.

In Boudha I stayed at the Tibet International hotel only 300 meters from the stupa and would recommend it to anyone.

The people working there were absolutely wonderful. After a few days, I'd almost fallen in love with three receptionists and with the roof terrace where there was a great view of the stupa and the snowcapped Himalayas.

Well, pictures speak louder than words (as a novelist, I hate that saying) but here are a few photos from my great week in Nepal and Boudha.

Kathmandu is a ride. But leave your lungs at home. They won't like the place half as much as you will.
And the Nepalese are an adorable people. Please invite me again, won't you?
***********************

My Reading In Helsinki, Finland: What a Sauna of Love!

2012-10-10T10:22:00.000-07:00

The first time I was in Finland I was almost beaten up by two Finnish thugs in a bar.

They didn't like my Greenpeace sticker, and when they found out I'd just been to Moscow, they were convinced I was a Commie. "We like to kill them," one of the psychos told me with a smile that would have made Hannibal Lecter proud.

But last month I was back in the Land of Nokia to present The Tsar's Dwarf (Zarens dværg) in Helsinki. And this time no one tried to bash my head in. Helsinki was sunny and friendly like a sauna of love.

My reading took place at a downtown library. Fifty wonderful Finns and Danes laughed, applauded, and fed me cheese. I spoke to Finns Who Love Denmark Because We Sound So Weird, Danes Who Married Finns And Don't Mind Too Much, and Finns Who Married Danes But Now Can't Get Rid Of Them. There were some great people from The Danish Club and the embassy as well. Even the Ambassador was cool.

I sold a lot of books, too and signed the odd body part.

I did, however, experience some drama.

In the airport bus I lost my credit card, but got it back two hours later.

"The Finns are extremely honest," my Danish host, Claus Elholm Andersen told me. He teaches Danish lit at University of Helsinki and recently moved to Helsinki from San Diego. Talking about dedication to the tundra! Claus is the man with the red shoes in the top photo. Whatever gets you through ten months of winter is fine with me, Claus.

Here are some more pictures from Helsinki. The Finnish capital isn't a bad place to hang out. And the sweet smell of Vodka is everywhere, especially in the trams in the morning.

So God bless the Finns. They put up with the Russians for centuries, and now they've put up with me.

Supertramp's Roger Hodgson in Concert at the Oregon Zoo: Even The Giraffes Got So Excited They Tried To Headbutt This Musical Genius

2012-08-20T11:22:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I can't stand all the beauty in the world.

Nine days ago was one of those days.

Roger Hodgson, the lead singer from Supertramp, had the audacity of visiting Portland, where he played some of the classics he wrote in the Seventies and Eighties. If you don't know what songs I'm talking about, let me just mention Give A Little Bit, Breakfast in America, The Logical Song, Dreamer, It's Raining Again, School, and Take The Long Way Home

The concert took place at the Oregon Zoo in front of orangutangs, leopards, and an enthusiastic crowd of aging hippies. The giraffes got so excited they tried to run up to the stage and headbutt Roger Hodgson, but he was probably protected by Babaji and a hundred other saints.

Goddammit, I don't want to admit how much I was moved by that concert. Not just because Roger Hodgsons songs were the soundtrack to my pimples, but because he is one of the most spiritual singers around.

Listening to Roger is like witnessing an archangel auditioning for Yogananda. And like the truly great artists, Hodgson is downloading songs from Heaven that he probably didn't write himself. And it pisses me off big time!

Why? Because I didn't go to the Oregon Zoo to be so viciously confronted with the beauty of existence. But I'm so happy I brought my fucking sun glasses because I was crying like a toddler when the old hippie played Hide In Your Shell, one of the most beautiful songs ever written.

And when Hodgson started on Lord Is It Mine? I totally broke down. That song is a modern day psalm. Johann Sebastian Bach probably gave it to Hodgson in a dream, and I don't even think that Bach regrets it!

So, Roger Hodson, I'm very impressed with you. But don't you dare come back to Portland, Oregon! And don't even think of visiting Copenhagen, because then I have to listen to you again. And frankly, I'm not sure me and the other giraffes can stand that much beauty.

Guitar photo of Roger Hodgson by Gregory Weinkauf
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Chelsea Cain: Mother of Serial Killers, Murderer of Plants, and Writer's Block (And She Will Chop Off Your Fingers For a Laugh As Well)

2012-08-12T11:02:00.000-07:00

A week ago I went to fellow Portland author Chelsea Cain's great reading at Powell's World of Books, the biggest book store west of the Rockies.

Chelsea's murder mysteries, starring serial killer Gretchen Lowell are out in 35 countries, and Chelsea told her dying public that she always looks for new exciting places in Portland to dump her bodies. (May I suggest the Scandinavian section at Powell's? No one is ever around, unless you can find a used copy of Stieg Larsson)

Chelsea Cain read from her newest thriller, Kill You Twice and told the audience a lot of scary stuff: For instance, her books are huge in Norway, and she adores the blood stains on her Japanese cover. She also handed out severed fingers to the audience which gave me a bit of a shock. Is that actually legal in the US? Couldn't Chelsea get sued if that got out of hand (so to speak)?

I don't know Chelsea Cain personally, but I once appeared in a video with her for Sledgehammer, a popular writing contest in Portland & Seattle. That was back in the good old days when Chelsea's body count was less impressive. She was a blond, too, probably because she thought she could get away with murder.

Liz Prato is the third scribe in this goofy promo about the most life-threatening condition in the world, writers block! You can see it below if you don't know what to do with your life the next minute and thirty-eight seconds.

Kill You Twice is published by Minotaur Books and will soon be available on Pluto as well. At least, I think so because Chelsea seems to be on a bit of a roll.

Thinking Of Aleppo And Syria (And The World's Oldest Insane Asylum Where Bashir al-Assad Should Be Locked Up Now)

2012-07-29T21:52:00.000-07:00

About nine years ago I was in Syria's second biggest city, Aleppo.

It's a charming place - a huge Arab metropolis with one of the most stupendous suqs (bazars) in the world, parts of it underground. Aleppo also has a fantastic citadel, Qal'at Halab and the world's oldest insane asylum from the 14th Century.

Back then the mental patients were treated to music and poetry instead of strait jackets. This would be a good place to put Syria's dictator, Bashar al-Assad who doesn't seem to understand that his time is up. Don't kill him though. Just tie him to an uncomfortable chair for a century or two, and let him listen to Rumi and some Sufi music to clear his murderous mind.

By the way, visiting Bimaristan Arghan, the insane asylum, inspired a Danish novel of mine, Skorpionens hale (Scorpio\s tale) that came out in 2008, so for many reasons the city is a fond memory.

Unfortunately, Aleppo is the center of the Syrian civil war right now. Hundreds have died during the first days of fighting there, and more than 200,000 are fleeing the city.

We're thinking and praying for you, Aleppo.

Syria is a beautiful country with lots of warm people and a long history of religious tolerance. I hope the Syrians will come out of the storm soon and not let any kind of fundamentalism take over.

This great country with its rich history deserves all the best. Inshallah.

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My Weird and Incredible Meeting With Israeli Author Meir Shalev (Which Just Goes To Show How Small The World Is)

2012-07-19T09:22:00.000-07:00

1.
Life is a funny and strange four letter word.

Three years ago I was an official blogger for PEN at World Voices in New York. At the party in a fancy midtown hotel on Manhattan I ran into Meir Shalev, the famous Israeli author.

I'd seen him on a panel a few days earlier where he'd made a wonderful impression, but apart from that I knew nothing about him. But after talking to the man for less than two minutes, I found out that he once met my Jewish Danish grandfather!

My totally unknown grandfather.

From a small town in Denmark. Far from New York and Israel.

Thirty-one years ago.

Ladies and gentlemen, how weird was that?

Meir Shalev, the award-winning Israeli author who was one of the many participants at World Voices 2009 in New York.

2.
All this came to light just because I bragged to Shalev about being 25% Jewish (my left leg?). My maternal grandfather was born in Safed in 1898 and was abducted by a Danish missionary under mysterious circumstances, ending up in my cold Scandinavian country as a frightened six year old.

"Oh, yes, yes" Meir Shalev told me, "I've heard that story before. He was baptized against his will, wasn't he? His name was David something. Actually, I met your grandfather twenty five years ago when I was in Denmark. He was a very interesting man."

I stared at Shalev. Was he a mind reader or some kind of memory psycho? Or was I on drugs without knowing it? But then again anything can happen in New York. Some one could have slipped a Semitic pill into my Chardonnay to take advantage of my body - or more likely, to force me from writing more novels.

Meir Shalev continued: "I met your grandfather through Herbert Pundik (a renowned Danish journalist and editor). Then I took the train and visited him an hour and a half from Copenhagen. He lived in the countryside in a beautiful house by a small pond."

I nodded and kept on staring at this strange Israeli writer. This was all too surreal, but at the same time, my granddad's life story was so incredible that most people would remember it if they heard it.

Actually, I wrote a novelized biography about his life in 1998 called Drømmeren fra Palæstina (The Dreamer from Palestine). It was my breakthrough to a larger audience in Denmark and stayed 85% true to the real events of his life, but unfortunately, the novel isn't out in English. However, it was published in French as Le Rêveur de Palestine (Gaia Editions, 2006), and got a rave review from French critic Mazarine Pingeot-Mitterand at the Salon de la Littérature Européenne de Cognac (Cognac Festival for European Literature) in 2006.

The French edition of my novel based on the life of David Huda.

My maternal granddad was named David Huda. He was the son of a Arab father and a Jewish mother, and he was abducted by a Danish Christian missionary when he was six, probably because his Arab Christian father wanted him to have the "right" upbringing.

Then David was brought to Denmark and forced to live in a strange land with a pair of cold, Lutheran foster parents who tried to turn him into a "good" Dane. At that time, no one had dark skin in Denmark, so my grandfather was considered a freak or a circus act by the farmers of Kibæk in Western Jutland.

My granddad's Christian baptism in 1906. The poor kid had his curls cut off and put in a white robe that made him look like a girl. The event traumatized him for life.

3.
On so many levels, David Huda's life has been important to me. My grandfather was a charismatic man with a great sense of humor, and the novel/biography I wrote about him was my breakthrough in Denmark to a bigger audience.

"I remember that David Huda escaped to Sweden during the Second World War in the bottom of a fishing boat," Shalev said. "He was very ill of cancer when I visited him in the early Eighties, but he made quite an impression on me."

I nodded. My granddad died in February 1982 but had just come alive on Lexington Avenue in New York on a cold May day, resurrected by a wonderful Israeli author I'd never heard of before and who definitely hadn't heard of me.

But maybe I shouldn't be so surprised. American PEN and World Voices are about connecting writers from around the world. Well, what can I say, PEN? You're doing a damn fine job!

Drømmeren fra Palæstina (Lindhardt & Ringhof) will be out as an e-book in Denmark this summer. And it will re-released as an audiobook as well, so my old novel/biography is getting a small revival.

******

Denmark For Dummies - A Superficial Introduction to The Happiest Nation on Earth (Updated, March 2012)

2012-03-17T08:54:00.000-07:00

Winner of www.Denmark.net's International Blog Contest, 2009. Updated version, March 2012.

All Danes are blond and gorgeous. And every single of us have a cabin with a view of a lake. No wonder the whole world wants to be Danish, but don't get your hopes up. We're very protective of our gene pool.

You're smart.

You're planning to go to Denmark.

You've always wanted to visit our country because you know that it's the most exciting nation in the world. You tell yourself, "Why would I want to go to London, Barcelona or Shanghai when I can go rock climbing on Lolland?"

"Yes," you continue, "I'm trendy. I want to visit Denmark because the Danes are so eco friendly with their bikes, cuisine, and state of the art dildos. And most important, they're the happiest and most trusting people in the world."

Yes, that's right.

In 2008 Denmark was named the happiest nation on the planet. And I'm living proof of that. Right now this Danish novelist is sitting in happy Copenhagen staring at the happy rain, enjoying the 43 degrees of happy spring.

Come and visit us, will you?

And please bring all your credit cards because you're going to need them!

GUIDE TO DENMARK
Here's a superficial introduction to my Southern Scandinavian Paradise. Everything you read in this guide is the gospel truth, so please don't sue.

Name: Denmark (Danmark)

Inhabitants: 5.6 million.

Capital: Copenhagen (1.5 million)

Ranking: Most livable city in the world (Monocle, British Magazine, 2008)

Other Top Rankings in the World That We Take Pride In:
a) Most trusting people in the world (April 2011)
b) Best restaurant in the world (Noma, 2010, 2011)
c) Most Pork consumption per capita (not counting your neighborhood Iman)

Language: Danish.

Government: Constitutional monarchy.

Currency: Kroner. (5.6 DKK to a US dollar)

Religion: No, thank you.

Name of Queen: Margrethe II.

Name of Prime Minister: Helle Thorning-Schmith. As popular as chlamydia.

Size: The 8th biggest country in the world if you count Greenland. (Always count Greenland).

Weather: Not really.

Unemployment Rate: Rising

Hospitality If You're Not White: Falling

Crime per Capita: Fourth lowest in the world.

Corruption: Second lowest in the world.

Average Consumption of Beer per Capita: Fourth highest in the world.

World Ranking for Danish Men In Bed: Number 9.

Famous Dead Danes: Hans Christian Andersen (fairy tale writer), Søren Kierkegaard (philosopher), King Canute (conquered England), Tycho Brahe (conquered the universe), Isak Dinesen (conquered Africa), Karen Blixen (conquered Meryl Streep), Vitus Bering (explorer), Niels Bohr (physicist), Georg Jensen (design), Carl Nielsen (composer), Carl Dreyer (film director), Victor Borge (comedian), Hamlet

Famous Living Danes: Caroline Wozniacki (tennis player, cute), Lars Ulrich (founder of Metallica, not that cute), Anders Fogh Rasmussen (General Secretary of NATO; he'll be happy to bomb any country America tells him to), Helena Christensen (model, unfortunately not in porn), Peter Høeg (author), Michael Laudrup, Peter Schmeichel (soccer players), Lars von Trier (film director), René Redzepi (chef)

Danes Who Ought to Be Dead: Jante.

Famous Half Danes: Viggo Mortensen, Scarlett Johansson, Ludvig Holberg.

Biggest Danish Film Star of All Time: Asta Nielsen (Die Asta from the silent age)

Best Mads Mikkelsen: Mads Mikkelsen

Most Trendy Film Director Right Now: Nicolas Winding Refn

Most Hilarious Grossfest: Clown, The Movie

Denmark's Favorite Neurotic Who Probably Isn't a Nazi: Lars von Trier

Most Popular Danish Children Song of All Time: Barbie Girl by Aqua

Best Danish Band Right Now: Mew

Most Famous Danish Building: The Opera House in Sydney (Jørn Utzon)

Danish Imperialism: Lego, Maersk, Ecco, Vesta, Bang and Olufsen, Carlsberg, Tuborg.

Daily Smokers: 10% of population. (All of them will be sitting on your lap when you go to an outdoor café)

Obesity Rate: 22% of population.

Best Danish Food: Moss, lichen, and soil mixed with bone marrow from an animal you don't want to eat. (Noma, world's best restaurant)

Denmark's Claim to Fame in Great Britain: Bacon.

Denmark's Claim to Fame in Spain, Greece & Cyprus: Blond girls with herpes.

Denmark's Claim to Fame in the Far East: Badminton.

Denmark's Claim to Fame in the Middle East: Cartoons.

Most Important Danish Invention of All Time: The atomic bomb (Niels Bohr)

Denmark's Biggest Contribution to American Sports: Morten Andersen, the all-time leading scorer in the NFL.

Best Tourist Attraction If You're Into Knights in Shining Armour: Frederiksborg castle, Hillerød and Kronborg, Helsingør (Hamlet's castle)

Best Tourist Attraction If You're Eight Years Old or Behaving Like It: Legoland.

Best Tourist Attraction If You're Eighty Years Old or Behaving Like It: Tivoli.

Most Overrated Tourist Attraction: The Little Mermaid.

This is the kind of abuse we Danes have to tolerate every day: Foreigners who fondle our national treasure as if she were a common strumpet. Shameless, that's what it is.

Time of Glory I: When the Danish vikings conquered England in the 11th century.

Time Of Glory II: When Denmark won the European Championship in soccer in 1992 and the whole country behaved like a frat party.

Most Beautiful Cities in Denmark: Copenhagen, Helsingør (Elsinore), Ærøskøbing, Faaborg, Ribe, Skagen, Svaneke.

Places to Avoid at All Costs Unless You Have A Secret Death Wish: Mørke, Ringsted, Brøndby, Fisketorvet.

Best Months to Visit the Land of the Danes: From late May to mid-September.

Best Month to Commit Suicide Because It's Dark, Dreary, and Everybody Wish They Were in Thailand: January.

Best Danish Traits: Tolerance, sense of humor, informality.

Worst Danish Traits: Intolerance, pettiness, self-satisfied melancholy.

What You'll Miss the Most If You're an American Visiting Denmark: TV anchors with perfect teeth.

What You'll Miss the Most If You're Italian: Bread and Berlusconi.

What You'll Miss the Most If You're Norwegian: Norway

Most Beautiful Area of Denmark: The Silkeborg lake district in Jutland and the island of Bornholm.

Most Stupid Thing to Say to a Dane: Now, which part of Germany are you from again?

Second Most Stupid Thing to Say to a Dane: Sweden is by far my favorite Scandinavian country.

Enjoy your stay. And please forgive Copenhagen for looking like Pompeii. We're building a Metro that we don't need ...

Copyright, Peter H. Fogtdal, Danish Accent, 2008, 2009, 2011, 2012

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Writing Visions: When Your Inner Clooney Offers Advice, You Better Listen Up

2012-03-02T08:22:00.000-08:00

1.
If I were a saint, I'm sure that Jesus Christ and Buddha would appear before me, offering me advice on how to save the world and myself. And not necessarily in that order.

But I'm just a novelist, so the only one who shows up in my dreams is George Clooney, and when the brilliant actor offered me some advice on the progress of my novel, I listened humbly.

This is not as weird as it sounds. Everybody can get help from their dreams. If they are strong and have a visionary quality, they can aid us solving problems in our lives. So believe it or not, My Inner Clooney was a big help to me. I won't promise that I'll dedicate my book to him, but if he invites me to stay at his villa outside Como, I could be talked into it.

2.
Okay, let me be serious for a second. In this memorable dream I just had, George Clooney said that I should try to be less aware of myself during the writing process (which is something I always work on intensely), and he also added something that made me laugh when I woke up: "Let the Swiss be Swiss and the Germans be Germans."

On a superficial level this comment didn't make sense at all. There are no Germans or Swiss in my novel. The story takes place in an ashram in India with an American Dane as the protagonist, but instinctively I knew what My Inner Clooney meant: the novel had become too weird and enigmatic. It needed to be more grounded.

You see, for the last three months I have tried to rewrite the story as a fable, inspired by Franz Kafka and too much spinach curry, probably. George didn't like that. He wanted the novel to be more orderly, structured, and down to earth (Swiss, German).

The reason why I took this dream seriously is that it was Clooney who said it. If it had been Justin Bieber or Kim Jong-Il, the dream would have meant something different, but to my mind George Clooney is an accomplished artist who does quality work, so when he breaks into my dreams I better take him seriously.

When I sat down and read the third draft of my novel, I had to agree with My Inner Clooney. The novel didn't work as a third person fable. It had become weird, pretentious, and boring. I had moved too far away from its irreverent, humorous, and slightly surreal base.

So all I can do is thanking George for making me see that.

But hey, if I'd met My Inner Clooney many years ago I would have asked his advice on how to pick up Italian women, but that's a different story we won't get into here...

PS.
One of my best novels, Flødeskumsfronten (Le Front Chantilly in France, O Paraiso de Hitler in Portugal) was based on a dreamlike vision I got in 1999 that was so strong I'll never forget it. So whether you're an artist, scientist, barista, carpenter or assassin, just know that your subconscious is bursting at the seems with ideas, insights, and visuals that would make Magritte proud.

Use them so they don't use you!

*****Art work by A. Huda*****

A Warm Tribute to Damascus and Syria (In Photos, Anyway)

2012-02-12T08:22:00.000-08:00

I wish I could write something funny about Syria, but what's taking place in that country right now is incredibly sad.

After eleven months of uprising, fighting has spread to gorgeous Damascus where so many artists and academics have stayed at the Danish Institute, working on their books, art, and projects. The old part of the capital is one of the most fascinating places I have visited in my life, and I loved the Syrians who are a warm and generous people.

Parts of my two latest novels, Skorpionens Hale and Zarens dværg (The Tsar's Dwarf, Hawthorne Books) were written at the institute in Souq Madhat Basha, close to the beautiful Umayyad mosque. It's hard not to be inspired when you "have to" walk through 1001 Nights just to get a shawarma. "Welcome," was the greeting everywhere, and you actually did feel welcome in Damascus where St. Paul got his visions two millennia ago.

So this post is a small homage of pictures from my three Syrian visits where I met so many warm and helpful people. I hope they're doing well right now, but I doubt it. The Assad regime has always been brutal, and unfortunately it's showing its true colors to the world right now.

May Allah be with every single Syrian who wants to live a life in freedom and peace!

All photos copyright by Peter H. Fogtdal, Danish Accent.

Blog entry from my latest stay in Damascus in 2007, Damascus Is A Dream But Lesbians Are Not Allowed

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There Is Nothing More Powerful Than Yoga (Unless You Hate It, Of Course)

2011-12-27T10:22:00.000-08:00

1.
I absolutely adore yoga. It's like having sex with yourself - a spiritual cleansing, a divine form of masturbation that has been passed down from Indian saints who didn't know how to keep warm in the Himalayas. I totally believe you can become enlightened by mastering your body - I'm just not sure I have one.

Yes, you guessed it, I only like yoga in theory. When my body sees a yoga mat it wants to run away and munch on a pork sandwich. It doesn't want to breathe through migraines; it doesn't find any joy in "allowing" the pain from a cracked collarbone. My body wants greasy tacos, sex in phone booths, and long bike rides around nuclear plants.

So why do I keep on torturing myself with the dog and other unhealthy yoga positions? I've done yoga on Greek islands, and I've gotten dengue at a health spa in Thailand. That's right, dengue at a health spa. God is trying to tell me something. "Stay away from yoga," God shouts with that booming voice of His that worked so well for Charlton Heston. "Go and catch chlamydia, that's much more spiritual."

2.
Right now I'm sitting at Kalani Oceanside Retreat in the rainforest on Big Island, Hawaii, and it's so serene it gets on my nerves. Alcohol isn't allowed, but anal sex is, so it's not all dull.

Actually, people are absolutely warm and beautiful. In my group you find a Latvian healer, a musician from L.A. with a gift for Zin Wine, a chocolate sales executive who despises chocolate, and an ex-con from the Oakland ghetto. The food is so healthy and tasty you want to scream, and unfortunately our yoga teacher Will is absolutely great. He even has a sense of humor, something I thought was strictly forbidden on the spiritual pathway. And hey, there's a reclining Buddha overseeing my declining body when I go snorkeling in the pool. With a life guard like that, how can you drown?

So yes, you could refer to this lush rainforest as Paradise, but damn it, there's nothing at Kalani to keep me on my toes. When I've been to ashrams in India and Thailand you had to watch out for snakes and monkeys jumping on your back. On Big Island nothing can kill you. You may see a dolphin or hear a whale, but even though this is a spiritual place whales tend to keep to the sea - they're not much for joining us for headstands.

3.
By the way, I love mediation much better than the medieval torture that passes for Kundalini yoga. I'm also pretty good at breathing. Without bragging I can say I've done that successfully for half a century.

A few days ago I almost reached Enlightenment. I suddenly found myself fondling the most beautiful woman in the studio which happened to be my own wife. And I felt like fondling a few others as well, since I believe it's very important to share your wealth, but unfortunately my guardian spirit told me to stop.

4.
So yes, I'll recommend meditation to any one, even though self discovery can be a scary journey. The first time I meditated I discovered that I didn't have a soul. I was only Mind and Thoughts. "Good," I smiled, "now I don't have to be compassionate to other people, I can just eat gelato." But those feelings eventually disappear when you get as close to Enlightenment as I am. Yes, you may buy my book and my DVD. I can walk on water, too.

But excuse me, I have to leave you now. There's an Ecstatic Dance taking place in the Rainbow Room here at Kalani. You're supposed to chant and rub your chakras against the other yogis while you chant something incredibly deep in Sanskrit. You just can't go wrong with that, now can you?

Link to the gorgeous Kalani Oceanside Retreat where egos go to die (some more than others)

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Introducing Novelist Olga Tokarczuk, Pride of Poland (Neptune Aspects And All)

2011-11-21T09:22:00.000-08:00

1.
I met Olga Tokarczuk in Cognac, France in 2004. Both of us were invited to Litteratures Europeennes Cognac, a literary conference for writers who had books out in French that year. Mine was Le Front Chantilly (Flødeskumsfronten, O Paraiso de Hitler), and I was extremely excited to be there.

I had no idea who Olga was, and since no one ever has any idea who I am, it was a match made in Heaven. We spent the conference talking about Jung, astrology, and dreams. Later, one of the other Polish writers told me that Olga Tokarczuk was Poland's greatest writer. "But she's a vegetarian," I shouted. "How can a vegetarian who believes in astrology be a great writer?"

The next year I read Olga's House of Day, House of Night, her only book out in the US where it has sold somewhere between 13 and 14 copies. It had won the Gunther Grass prize in Germany, however, and was supposedly a post modern work with no beginning, middle or end.

"Oh, that sounds boring," I yawned and opened the book knowing I would hate something that pretentious. Half an hour later I was hooked. House of Day, House of Night turned out to be one of the best novels I've ever read - a collection of dreamy, meditative small stories where Silesia (Schlesien), a southern region of Poland, was the protagonist. I'd never read anything like it, and when I taught the book in a literature class at Portland State University I discovered that my students enjoyed it as much as I did.

2.
I met up with Olga again in Berlin earlier this month where she was on book tour. She's a big name in Germany as well, and we had a great dinner together.

"There are so few writers who are interested in spirituality," she said and told me that her last book had gotten a lot of ridiculous reviews because her protagonist had been (gasp) an astrologer, and in many academics' eyes that made the book less convincing (!)

"I'm not surprised about that at all," I said with a little smile, having been at the receiving end myself of many scornful reviews for those of my Danish novels that are too spiritual.

We also talk a lot about our Neptune aspects and the writing process. I'm dead tired of being too controlled in my writing. I want my stuff to be weirder, less traditional, and more mythical. Olga offers a lot of great insights which go down very well with the Indian Palak Paneer we enjoy in Schoneberg on this dark November night.

Afterward we go out for coffee, and I give Olga a copy of The Tsar's Dwarf where I've borrowed a few lines from House of Day, House of Night as a homage to her wonderful writing.

Olga, on the other hand, gives me her first novel, Primeval and other times which has come out in English sixteen years after its publication in Poland, but not from a British or American publisher but from a Czech.

"That's weird," I laugh.

"I don't think American publishers believe in me," Olga sighs, making me feel fortunate that I've been treated so well in the US - a country that basically is a cemetery for European novelists who don't write thrillers.

But you can't keep a good woman down. And Olga Tokarczuk is a fantastic writer that I truly admire. If you haven't read her you should. She's out in about fourteen languages, so unless you're waiting for the new Stieg Larsson, what's holding you up?

Wikipedia, Olga Tokarczuk

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Forgive Me, Berlin, But I Miss The Wall and The Gloomy Marxists With Their Bad Haircuts

2011-11-10T13:25:00.000-08:00

1.
I'm in Berlin for the first time in more than thirty years.

It's a fun, vibrant city full of cafes, trendy neighborhoods, and friendly people with oversized lap tops. Prentzlauer Berg is hard not to like. So are Bergmannstrasse and fashionable Unter den Linden with the wonderful Berlin museum, but the more I walk toward Brandenburger Tor the more I miss the wall and good old gloomy East Germany.

Not because I liked the German Democratic Republic or DDR. No one did unless they were deranged. East Germany was the most unpleasant country in the world at that time (not counting North Korea and certain parts of Alabama), but it was exciting the same way a nightmare is exciting. It made your heart beat faster. The collective paranoia crept into you and made you look suspiciously at every zombie-hausfrau who passed you in the street, most of them smoking Bulgarian cigarettes that smelled worse than the factories.

2.
Yes, that's right, visiting East Germany was like walking into a black and white film with incredibly bad props. People drove around in silly Skodas and troubled Trabants. The East Germans wore dreadful clothes and had haircuts that made Danish degenerates like me roar with laughter. Alexanderplatz in the late seventies was a paradise of asbestos and huge red banners, teaching us that the Party decided what we should say and think.

God, I loved the Deutsche Democratische Republik the same way you love your undertaker.

It was definitely my "favorite" dictatorship because the Poles and Romanians were too friendly. And in Hungary the food was too delicious to being real Marxist, but the East Germans got it right: They hated and despised everybody. They seemed depressed and were downright rude toward capitalists who didn't bow before their Holy Trinity of Marx, Engels, and Hoenecker. But still they dreamed of hiding in your pockets when you went back to West Berlin.

"God, it must be so exciting to live in this workers' paradise," I used to think stupidly, "they have microphones in the ashtrays just like in the movies, and when somebody knocks at your door in the middle of the night you know it's not your boring neighbor but some Stasi with a gun."

I remember walking around East Berlin, wishing that Denmark had a secret police because that would have kept me more on my toes than that Portuguese wine I used to drink back then.

3.
My fondest memory of my two trips to East Germany was visiting my pen pal, a girl from Halle who dreamed of escaping to the West.

One late night we sat on a bench in Alexanderplatz and kissed. It was one of those three minute kisses you have to be a teenager to endure. We never came up for air, we just kept on kissing ... but while we were at it, I felt something was wrong. I looked up and saw that a police car slowly went by eying us suspiciously. Then it disappeared, but one minute later it came back.

An officer rolled down the window and said something sinister to us (the German language is always kind of sinister). After they left the second time, we got up and continued somewhere else. Why shouldn't we? It was East Meeting West. In our mouths any way.

Here's a picture of us that went around the world. It's me on the left.

4.
Berlin today is quaint and exciting but not a favorite city of mine.

Predictably enough I enjoy the DDR museum and the DDR restaurant the most, even though the latter should be dangerous to your health. I've never had worse food than I did in East Berlin as a teenager. It almost makes the sandwiches at Starbucks seem edible.

One of my favorite places today is Kollwitzplatz. And there's something wonderfully ridiculous about the biggest tourist trap of them all, Checkpoint Charlie where I buy a piece of the Wall that I add to my collection of relics: the two splinters from Jesus cross on Golgata, and the diaper that Justin Bieber wore in 2008.

5.
I leave modern day Berlin after three days, but what I'm going to miss the most is the Club Colas they used to serve in DDR. They always tasted like Cokes that had been left open on a kitchen counter for a decade.

No wonder that East Germany ceased to exist. There's only so much suffering humanity can take, anyway.

No Wonder I Feel Right At Home In Gdansk, Poland (In The Company Of A Certain Naked Woman)

2011-11-03T13:35:00.000-07:00

1.
I'm presenting my novel The Tsar's Dwarf at Uniwersytet Gdanski in Poland, and no wonder I feel right at home.

A few minutes before my reading I run into The Little Mermaid. She's sitting stark naked in the hall trying to read Søren Kierkegaard. No wonder she looks depressed. But I've always been a fan of our national symbol, so I decide to cheer her up by gently stroking her breasts. She gets quite aroused, of course, and as you can tell from the picture I get tired from my handiwork.

Actually, I love the fact that the Danish national symbol is visiting Poland. We have a duty to share her with the world, so first The Little Mermaid went to Expo in Shanghai, and now she's hanging out at Uniwersytet Gdanski hoping to get laid.

"Your Danish mermaid used to sit in the Norwegian class room, but we got so sick of her we threw her out," Hilde, the Norwegian instructor tells me with a cruel smile. What she has replaced The Little Mermaid with I have no idea, but it's probably a statue of Quisling or Drillo, the two big Norwegian heroes.

2.
Gdansk is beautiful. I had no idea that the historical center was so breathtaking. It took me back to the happy days of 1716 when everybody wore powdered wigs and didn't worry about the Euro.

Seriously, if I'd known that Gdansk was this gorgeous I would have gone years ago. Gdansk is only 50 minutes by plane from Copenhagen, but it seems like another world. The prices are low, the graffiti in the train stations are awesome, and people really know how to drink.

And hey, I'm deeply impressed with the language as well. The Poles don't believe in vowels. They were forbidden by law a long time ago. However, this country seems to have a kinky love affair with the letter Z. They put it absolutely everywhere, especially in places where it doesn't belong.

But as I said, what impresses me the most is the old part of Gdansk. It was expertly rebuild after the war, and even though the suburbs look grey and dreary, they still have a fifties charm with old train stations and houses with verandas that will collapse if a squirrel runs across the roof.

4.
After three days in Poland I definitely feel like coming back and explore more of this exciting country. However, I want to avoid Krakow and Auschwitz. Those two places have too much in common if you ask me. In one place they don't like the Jews, in the other they don't like the English. But as everybody knows, the European Championship in football will be here next year. And Denmark will win, beating Poland 8-0 in the final.

Why? Because The Little Mermaid belongs to us. Duh!

How To Milk a Danish Cash Cow (A Holy Scam In Varanasi, India)

2011-10-06T11:32:00.000-07:00

1.
I'm in love with India. I've been here about eight times. I love the deep spirituality of this great country. And when I get tired of God, there are always the strong colors, the gorgeous scent of urine, and the palak paneer they serve in the small guest houses.

India is full of surprises, too. Yesterday I ran into three holy cows and Goldie Hawn. And I was head butted by all four. Yes, I'm truly blessed.

This time I'm here to do research on my next novel. It takes place in Varanasi, the holiest of all cities in India. Varanasi (Benares) is the famous place where you wash away your sins in Mother Ganges. And cremate your loved ones at the same time. You could argue that Ganges is the biggest funeral parlor in the world. Or the most impressive sewer in history.

Varanasi is India at its best and worst. It's colorful, charismatic, loud, polluted, dirty, generous, kind, obnoxious, spiritual, beautiful, and a haven for scam artists, con men, and monks with an advanced degree in pick pocketing. Everybody wants something from you. Sometimes it's your soul, but mostly it's just your damn rupees.

I ran into a delightful scam the other day. Since I know how to navigate in India, it didn't take me totally by surprise. But sometimes I'm not as cynical as I like to think, so let's say I was mildly disappointed. While roaring with laughter at the same time.

2.
I was walking down the atmospheric alleys of the old city avoiding the cow dung, the one-armed beggars, and the scrawny cows feasting on filthy plastic bags.

A man came up to me and started to talk. His English was fine, so we chatted for a while. At one point he asked whether I wanted to see the burning ghats - the place where the dead are cremated before their ashes are spread over Mother Ganges.

I said, sure, and we went to a house that supposedly was a hospice for the poor. Here people come from all over India to die and are taken care of for free. I was greeted by a little old lady in a dirty sari.

"This is The Mother Teresa of Varanasi" I was told, and then I was introduced to a guru in a dhoti and two volunteers. A "pious" looking gentleman lead me up to the roof of the patient-free hospice, so I could get a good view of the cremations at the nearby ghat.

"You have to understand, we're not asking for money. We're all volunteers at this hospice," my guide said.

I nodded, knowing that when a con man says he doesn't want money, things are going to get very expensive. But I went along for the ride for the simple reason I wasn't 100% sure whether this was a scam or not. Yet.

From the roof top there was a nice view of the Ganges and the three platforms where the dead are burned: One for the upper cast (business class?), one for the middle cast (coach), and one for the lower cast. The fire that was used for the cremation was lit thousands of years ago and had never gone out, my guide told me while meditating on my pin codes.

I started to cough because of the heavy smoke. I've always been sensitive to inhaling the deceased, especially Brahmins.

My guide stared at me through the fumes with that pious look he had practiced in front of the mirror, "Look around, Sir. Look at all the people carrying the dead bodies. Do you see any women?"

"No."

"Women are not allowed to attend because they cry. Crying holds back the soul. It's very selfish to show emotion, Sir."

"Well, sometimes men are emotional, too," I said.

"Yes, but men are not women," the Pious One answered with surprising contempt. Then he told a story about a widow who threw herself on the fire to be with her dead husband. This unfortunate incident happened ten years ago and meant that women had been banished from the cremations ever since.

After ten minutes of watching I'd had enough. Even though there was something sad but beautiful about the cremations, there was a limit to how much of a voyeur I wanted to be. When I got downstairs, the guru was ready to bless me as a token "for the large donation I was going to give to the poor".

"The small donation," I added quickly.

The guru in the dhoti asked me to kneel and put a warm hand on my head and started praying. I liked looking into his eyes, and I clearly felt good karma was coming my way, even though I was aware that one of the 32 million Hindu gods probably would cut my head off if I was stingy.

When that was done, my guide stepped forward and asked me to give a donation of 2000 rupees (about fifty US-dollars) which would cover the expenses of a cremation for two people.

"I'll donate 200 rupees," I said immediately.

My guide looked at me with horror. "No, that's not possible," he said, once more putting a hand on his heart as pious people do when they're asking for justice in this cruel world. "A 1000 rupee donation is the smallest we can accept."

Now suddenly I was crowded by six people. A young volunteer from Europe said he was sick and tired of "tourists who'd only give the equivalent of 5 euros when they are filthy rich."

The atmosphere was getting ugly, but now I got stubborn. If these people were who they pretended to be, they wouldn't pressure me. So I stood my ground 100% convinced that this indeed wasan ugly but hilarious scam.

When it finally dawned on everybody, I wasn't going to give more than 200 lousy rupees (a weekly wage for most in India), one of them shouted, "Give at least something to Mother Teresa."

Suddenly, the frail old lady stood by my side and looked up at me with her big compassionate eyes. I sighed and handed her a 50 rupee bill, just to end things on a civilized note.

The next second I'll never forget as long as I live.

"Mother Teresa of Varanasi", this pious woman who had dedicated her life to the poor; this modern-day saint who had renounced luxury to do God's work on earth, stared at the 50 rupee bill I'd given her with a baffled look on her face - a look that I best can describe as "you gotta be fucking kidding me." Then the look slowly turned into contempt and then to anger. For a short second I thought this angel was going to attack me and rip me to pieces.

When I walked out of the hospice I heard the sound of people spitting after me, and when I continued down one of the narrow alleys, I felt how the good karma I'd been promised slowly evaporated and gave way to ancient curses from the "spiritual" people at this divine "hospice".

3.
The first minutes afterward I was a little more shaken than I wanted to admit. Had I been too harsh? Could I be so sure that it was a scam? But of course it was. And I wouldn't have been without all this. 250 rupees to experience something as wonderfully absurd as a hospice tour was a damn bargain.

And hey, I got to take some good pictures, too.

A few days later I left Varanasi.

It was difficult to say goodbye to this gorgeous mess of a place. Varanasi is the kind of city you never forget. It shows humanity at its best and worst: Beggars dying in the streets, horny monks rubbing against women, child prostitution, devout Hindus full of beautiful faith, nuns helping the poor, gorgeous processions with elephants, sun sets coloring the roof tops and the fishing boats, beautiful kids asking for one rupee...

When I entered Varanasi's small airport I saw a sign saying YOU'RE BEING WATCHED.

At first I felt intimidated. Was God at the check-in counter, too? But then I simply decided it was good news for us narcissists.

Rewritten blog entry from the fall of 2009

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Hi, Hermann Hesse, I'm Right Outside Your House. Why Don't You Come Out And Play?

2011-09-07T09:22:00.000-07:00

1.
I'm visiting the great novelist and poet Hermann Hesse.

Frankly, I haven't been invited, but I don't really care, and Hermann probably doesn't, either. I'm in his house in Montagnola in the Italian speaking part of Switzerland. Hermann Hesse lived here from 1919 until his death in 1962, and I can't say I blame him. The area is absolutely gorgeous, overlooking Lago di Lugano and the majestic Alps. If I'd lived here I would have written Siddharta, too.

Right now I'm walking around the first house Hesse lived in. It's called Torre Camuzzi and is a museum for the great German/Swiss writer who won the Nobel Prize in 1946. One Nobel prize is too little if you ask me. The man should have won two! I mean, have you ever read Demian and Siddharta? Hesse wasn't just a great writer, he was also a mystic, a philosopher, a pacifist, and a humanitarian who stood up against the Kaiser, Hitler, and the nationalism of the day.

When I read Demian the first time I was totally blown away because the novel is a spiritual manifesto and a visionary masterpiece that easily could have been written today. I mean, can you mention any writer in the world who had such insight, such language, and used spiritual symbolism in a way that would have made Confucius, Krishnamurti, and Jung proud?

2.
I have a lot in common with Hermann Hesse, except for the small fact that I'm not a genius.

I'm as heavily influenced by Indian mysticism as he was. I'm in love with Francis of Assisi, and I'm a nomad and pacifist as well. So Hermann Hesse holds up a mirror for me. All great artists do. When a reader loves a writer it's never only the writing he or she connects to; it's something deeper - a vision shared whether the reader knows it or not.

Hey, Hermann Hesse even had a younger wife as I do (mine is just more adorable), and he loved traveling in Italy - a country that always has been a great inspiration for me as a novelist and soul.

What is funny is that I never knew anything about Hesse's personal life until a few months ago. In 2001 I read Siddharta and loved the prose and the wisdom. It's only this summer I've started to read the rest of Hesse's books, and what a great journey I'm on.

It's also quite a journey walking around Hesse's home, admiring his straw-hat, the glasses he wore, the typewriter he wrote on - not forgetting the private pictures of the novelist/poet/painter sunbathing in the nude. (Yes, he was German after all). I almost feel as if I'm trespassing, but that's okay because I love trespassing.

3.
The last thing I do is sit by Hermann Hesse's tomb a kilometer away from his house in a beautiful cemetery, surrounded by cypresses and bird song.

His gravestone is simple and humble contrary to lots of the others. A small Buddha is sitting on top, and Hesse's third wife is lying next to him.

I'm very moved by the stillness and the presence at the cemetery. However, I know that Hermann Hesse wasn't a saint. His work was everything to him, he often suffered from depressions and felt like a misfit, but I'm extremely grateful for the art and the insights the weird German Steppenwolf gave to the world and me.

So danke, grazie, thank you, Hermann. I enjoyed stalking you, and I'll continue reading your books until there are no more left...

What's The Best Thing About Milano? The Train Station, Of Course

2011-09-02T06:50:00.000-07:00

I'm not a big fan of Milano or Milan.

It's probably the dreariest city in Italy - a country that has more beautiful cities than anywhere else in the world. Sure, Milano is home to the fashion industry, and it's the proud owner of the Duomo, the gorgeous cathedral. And okay, okay, Breda is kind of quaint in a Armani, Prado, Gucci sort of way, but apart from that Milano is totally devoid of Latin charm. It's a Mid-European city with a Swiss/German work ethic - now how Italian is that?

However, the greatest thing about Milano is definitely its train station, Milano Centrale. God, what a wonderful place. I know I'm a bit perverse, but I have this thing for huge stations. They almost give me an erection. I love the fact that people come and go, buy cheap sandwiches, cheesy magazines, kiss uncles on the mouth, shout at ants and the homeless, and then get the hell out. When you meet some one at a train station you know you might never see them again and that can be a great relief.

2.
Milano Centrale looks like a church, too with its large dome. You almost expect God to descend to tell you that the train to Bergamo is twenty-two minutes late.

The other day I was caught at the station for two hours, so I headed straight for the public toilets, expecting a grossfest of bacteria, but instead I got a clean stall for no less than one Euro. Since that's a steep price for doing something necessary, I decided to stay on for two hours, reading a good book, admiring myself in the mirror ... I even did my laundry. And after that, I took a walk in the huge station, enjoying being back in my third favorite country in the world.

What I love most about Italy is that it's socially acceptable to scratch your crotch in public - something I miss doing in the US where people call the police the second they discover you have genitals.

When my train finally left for Lago di Como and I saw Milano Centrale disappear in the horizon I cried. But I definitely plan to go back. Next time I'll probably buy a condominium on binario 6. That's how fond I am of Italy, seriously.

*****

Beautiful London (And Almost Not a Word About the Rioting)

2011-08-15T08:56:00.000-07:00

It's hard not to love London. The parks are so gorgeous, and luckily they can be used by everybody. There is no dress code, but that shouldn't surprise you. The British haven't dressed well since 1939.

I still love riding the double-decker buses, and like all kids I always fight to get the front seat on the top. Sometimes I have to mug a few Spanish tourists, but no one said mass transit was easy. And hey, I got to take this mediocre picture of Oxford Circus.

Being such a history slut, I went to Hampton Court outside of London. Frankly, I wanted to get away from the riots in the city, so what was more natural than escaping back to the peaceful times of the 16th Century?

When I visited the castle I ran into Henry VIII. I was a little surprised since I thought he was dead. But much to my dismay His Majesty didn't look like Jonathan Rhys-Meyers at all.

You see, I'm obsessed with The Tudors, the popular TV-series. I've watched it on Netflix all summer and learned so much about the Renaissance. For instance, I had no idea that everybody was so fuckable in the 16th Century. They obviously had amazing dental work in England back then. Even the executioner looks like a TV-anchor with those pearly whites. And a few of the queens must have made use of the tanning beds in Ealing. Yes, those were the days when you could behead your wives and wear fabulous clothes, too.

But there are other more important tourist sites in London. What impressed me most was the shrine to Beautiful Football Played By Whining Millionaires, also known as the Emirates, Arsenal's stadium. The canons outside were put there to make sure that Nicklas Bendtner doesn't come back.

The great thing about London is that you find art everywhere. This photo is from Downing Street, I believe. A few famous residents live there, but I have no idea who.

Your Danish novelist couldn't help taking a picture of himself in Islington where he stayed at a cottage owned by his union. That's why I'd come to London in the first place: to write with that comforting sound of police sirens in the background.

God bless London. Unfortunately, the city is going to need it.

The Writing Process: When Your Novel Threatens To Leave You For Another Writer

2011-07-28T09:18:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when I'm writing on my novel, it starts talking back at me.

Novels aren't supposed to do that, of course. They're supposed to do what the author says. Novels should lie down, close their eyes, and think of England, but sometimes you come across a text that wants to put you in your place.

I've been writing on such a novel for two and a half years, and sometimes we cuddle like teddy bears; other times we tear each others hair out like congressmen in DC.

"Don't you think I know what I'm doing?" I shout at my novel when it refuses to cooperate. I tell it about my past accomplishments: my French literary award, my blurbs from world class authors, my book readings in New York and Bramminge ... but my novel couldn't care less. It doesn't bother with my ego and my wet dreams. It just wants me to pay attention, stare into a mountain lake, and shut the fuck up.

"I don't want to be written by a word slut. I want to be written by a high flying bird," my novel says and leaves me in a desert of adverbs.

Then I beat my head against the wall and continue to write, but nothing happens. The only thing that pops up is My Old Bag of Tricks, and I'm not that interested in them anymore. I can use those on Facebook, Twitter, and other bathroom walls.

Frankly, I get a little scared as well. What if my novel finds another writer to work with? You can't take for granted it will stay with me. Maybe it latches on to a different dreamer? Literature doesn't want to be a prisoner; it detests shiny time managers and ridiculous word counts.

So now I got it; now I've finally learned.

My novel and my muse ganged up on me one night in May, and let's just say they won. I've slowed down now. I take walks in lush forests and listen to porcupines rubbing bellies. I admire bluebirds spreading their wings and count mosquitoes on sun soaked meadows. Like any decent novelist, I've been forced to tone down My Word Slut and get in stronger contact with My High Flying Bird. They work well together as long as I don't eat too much fried food.

So when will my thirteenth novel be out, you may want to ask?

Well, earlier this year I thought I'd finished it. Now, of course, I know it isn't true. I could be done in three months or in three years - who's to say? But one day I pray that the novel will be kind enough to tell me.

The Day Denmark Moved to Oregon (Welcome to the Danish Cultural Conference in the Pacific Northwest)

2011-06-28T09:02:00.000-07:00

1.
Why does the annual Danish Cultural Conference always occur in a place that looks like Norway?

Denmark doesn't have rivers or mountains, so you can't expect us Danes to feel at home in the Colombia Gorge. It's simply too gorgeous. Danes only feel at home when the surroundings are flat, and everybody gets naked.

However, absolutely no one got naked at the Danish Cultural Conference at Menucha in Corbett, Oregon. Most of the people present were in their seventies or eighties. They were Danes who immigrated to the US in the fifties or sixties but still yearn after knækbrød - great people who got teary eyed watching the raising of our Danish flag, Dannebrog. So for three days we could all pretend that Oregon was a Danish colony, just like Greenland, Iceland, Norway, Sweden, Northern Germany, Ghana, Trankebar, the Virgin Islands and England were in the good old days.

2.
The annual conference offered a lot of cultural event for us fine connoisseurs of leverpostej.

I was the keynote speaker and did my presentation of The Tsar's Dwarf, my novel that's out in English, French, Portuguese, and Danish. John Mark Nielsen from the Danish Immigrant Museum spoke about Jens Jensen, a noted prairie landscape architect that I've never heard of. Christiane Lauritzen from the Royal Danish Embassy in Washington DC enlightened us on the History of Danish Diplomacy. Luckily enough, she didn't bring any of the cartoons they adored in Saudi Arabia and Syria ...

At night we listened to the great folk singer Flemming Behrend from Olympia and Frederiksberg. Some people even got drunk, just to show that they hadn't forgotten their Danish ways. I got to talk with quarter Danes from Solvang and Argentinians who escaped into the woods to avoid all this Danishness.

Yes, you should have been there. Menucha by the Colombia Gorge is gorgeously situated in the middle of nowhere. It's full of wild life, too: elks, bears, bob cats, raccoons, rabbits, squirrels - I bet they enjoyed the raising of the Danish flag as well.

Dawn in Copenhagen: Frankly, It Looks a Bit Like Pompeii, Doesn't It?

2011-06-20T09:24:00.000-07:00

It's dawn in Copenhagen.

It's 5.45 AM, so it has actually been dawn for several hours, but I get up and walk around my hometown like a curious toddler.

I live most of the time on the American West coast, so the nine hour time difference should have done me in. But no, I have to get out and enjoy the silky morning light, the pale sun, the soft shadows on deserted cobblestone streets, the ghosts of Kierkegaard and falafel. I even enjoy watching the party people crawling home after a night of heavy drinking.

Let's face it: there is nothing that beats the smell of vomit at 5.56 AM.

You can't beat all the construction, either. On weekdays it starts early: a symphony of drills and smashed concrete - you could call it Danish devastation at its finest. It's as if Copenhagen has been put in the dentist chair and told it won't get out for the next seven years.

You see, our brilliant politicians have decided that Copenhagen needs another Metro. Copenhagen doesn't, of course. It needs another Metro as much as Dominique Strauss-Kahn needs Viagra, but politicians always get elected when they talk about economical growth.

So now my lovely hometown looks like Pompeii. There are deep pits everywhere, the sound of mean machines have replaced bird song; whole squares seem to sink into the ground never to be heard from again. So Copenhagen is actually the opposite of Pompei. History is destroyed to build a Metro we can't afford. In a city that has had excellent mass transportation for years.

Still, Copenhagen remains beautiful, self satisfied, quaint ... sometimes picture perfect, baroque, aloof, even ever so trendy with modern, rainy architecture, and boisterous blonds riding their bikes into oblivion.

But then again, maybe I'm just a man in love. Copenhagen has always been one of my favorite places on earth. For two weeks at a time, that is. Then I run away screaming. There is only so much beauty a man can take, anyway ...

Read my award winning blog, Denmark for Dummies - A Superficial Introduction to the Happiest Nation on Earth.

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Photos copyright by Peter H. Fogtdal, Danish Accent, http://fogtdal.blogspot.com

A Meaningless Travel Guide to the Greatest City in America (Not Counting New York, San Francisco, and Plains, Georgia): Yes, It's Portland, Oregon

2011-05-23T22:29:00.000-07:00

One of my many great Facebook friends is a Dutch writer, Richard de Nooy. We've never met, but we seem to have the same sick sense of humor. A few months back Richard asked me to answer some questions on his humorous KLM travelblog about Portland, Oregon where I live most of the time now.

Richard's blog is widely read in the Netherlands and other flat places where people have nothing better to do. Richard's Mom likes it too, I bet.

Since the delightful Mr. de Nooy had the audacity of editing my answers, I'll bring the whole online interview here:

Best place to kiss someone in Portland for the first time?
On the mouth. They have those in Portland, too. If that answer is too esoteric, may I recommend Washington Park overlooking the city and our two snow-capped volcanoes in the distance? Or how about the strikingly beautiful Colombia Gorge, just 45 minutes away where you find small waterfalls, hiking trails, and the odd bobcat? For city people, I'll recommend the hippie cafes where Portlanders love inhaling herb tea and eat tofu sandwiches with organic bean sprouts until they fart.

Anna Bannana's on NW 21 & Northrup and The Pied Cow on SE Belmont & 33 are great places if you aren't right in the head. Paradox, a few blocks south on Belmont, is wonderful for healthy hippie food. Portland is fun and weird. Fred Armisen and Connie Brownstein's TV-comedy about the city, Portlandia is right on.

Best place to take your 70-year-old mother-in-law?
Your grandmother will absolutely adore The Chinese Garden downtown which supposedly is the most authentic in the world outside of Asia. It's beautiful in a non-threatening Mah-Jong-kind-of-way and has a nice pond, so you can push her in as well.

Best place to take your 12-year-old twins, Beelzebub and Bodicaea?
Beelzebub will absolutely enjoy the strip clubs, Bodicaea not so much.

What surprised you most about Portland and Oregon?
How friendly everybody is. This is far cry from New York and Chicago where people will be happy to maim you. In Portland people are generous in traffic; they even smile at you to the point of insanity. Portland is an awesome place to take advantage of strangers. Some people claim that Portlanders are passive-aggressive, but then again so are most poodles.

Another great thing about PDX is that it's a city of rebels and so-called left wingers. (In the US, everybody with a hint of social consciousness is considered Far Left). George Bush the Elder, bless his arthritis, called Portland for "Little Beirut" because of its dislike for Republican Riff-Raff - you can't get a bigger compliment than that.

What should change in Portland and Oregon?
The weather. It's a soft core version of Denmark and Holland. Apart from July, August, and September, it rains way too much. Seattle is even worse, which makes us all feel a lot better.

What should we definitely see/avoid?
Every book lover has to go to Powell's downtown, a city block of books, the largest book store west of the Rockies. It's a fantastic but dangerous place. You walk in thinking you'll buy some Ken Follet, and you come out with a truckload of Dostoevsky. Powell's even has a Danish and a Dutch section where we can buy books in our own ugly languages. And best of all, you can take any book and bring it down to the cafe and read it for free if you're a cheapskate.

Why is Portland called the Rose City?
Because it has one or two rose gardens that it's nauseatingly proud of - plus a cheesy parade. Rose City is a ridiculous name. It's a bit as if Utrecht called itself The City of Crocodiles after buying 12 alligators in Florida...

But do visit Portland, the 23. biggest city in the US. America doesn't get much better than here. And you'll definitely find your share of benign weirdos, funky food carts, and radicals who will recycle your toilet paper in this West Coast metropolis.

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Denmark for Dummies: A Superficial Introduction To The Happiest Nation On Earth (Updated)

2011-04-22T09:22:00.000-07:00

Winner of www.Denmark.net's International Blog Contest, 2009. Updated version.

All Danes are blond and gorgeous. And all of us have a cabin with a view of a lake. No wonder the whole world wants to be Danish, but don't get your hopes up. We're very protective of our gene pool.

You're smart.

You're planning to go to Denmark.

You've always wanted to visit our country because you know that it's the most exciting nation in the world. You tell yourself, "Why would I want to go to Paris, London or Florence when I can go hiking in Djursland?"

"Yes," you continue, "I'm trendy. I want to go to Denmark because the Danes are eco-friendly, they ride their bikes like there's no tomorrow, they're innovative with windmills and dildos, and most important, they're the happiest and most trusting people in the world."

Yes, that's right.

What we Danes have known for ages is now official: Denmark has been named the happiest nation on the planet. And I'm living proof of that. Right now this Danish novelist is sitting in the middle of happy Copenhagen staring at the happy rain, enjoying the 43 degrees of happy spring.

Come and visit us, will you?

And please bring all your credit cards because you're going to need them!

YOUR GUIDE TO DENMARK

Here's a superficial introduction to my Southern Scandinavian Paradise. Everything you read in this guide is the gospel truth and is not open for discussion.

Name: Denmark (Danmark)

Inhabitants: 5.5 million.

Capital: Copenhagen (1.5 million)

Ranking: Most livable city in the world (Monocle, British Magazine, 2008)

Other Top Rankings in the World That We Take Pride in Because We Damn Well Should:
a) Most trusting people in the world (April 2011)
b) Best restaurant in the world (Noma)
b) Most Commitment to foreign aid.
c) Most Pork consumption per capita (not counting your neighborhood Iman)

Language: Danish.

Government: Constitutional monarchy.

Currency: Kroner. (5.5 DKK to a US dollar)

Religion: No, thank you.

Name of Queen: Margrethe II.

Name of Prime Minister: Always a Rasmussen.

Size: The 8th biggest country in the world if you count Greenland. (Always count Greenland).

Unemployment Rate: Rising

Hospitality If You're Not White: Falling

Crime per Capita: Fourth lowest in the world.

Corruption: Second lowest in the world.

Average Consumption of Beer per Capita: Fourth highest in the world.

Weather: Not really.

Favorite National Hobby: Bombing Libya

New Pet Hate for Silly Danes: Norwegians.

Old Pet Hate for Wise Danes: The Danish People's Party

World Ranking for Danish Men In Bed: Number 9.

Famous Dead Danes: Hans Christian Andersen (fairy tale writer), Søren Kierkegaard (philosopher), King Canute (conquered England), Tycho Brahe (conquered the universe), Isak Dinesen (conquered Africa), Karen Blixen (conquered Meryl Streep), Vitus Bering (explorer), Niels Bohr (physicist), Georg Jensen (design), Jørn Utzon (architect), Carl Nielsen (composer), Carl Th. Dreyer (film director), Victor Borge (comedian), Hamlet (Shakespeare's boy toy).

Famous Living Danes: Caroline Wozniacki (tennis player, cute) Lars Ulrich (founder of Metallica, not that cute), Anders Fogh Rasmussen (General Secretary of NATO; he'll be happy to bomb any country you dislike), Bjorn Lomborg (climatic self promoter), Helena Christensen (ex-model), Peter Høeg (author), Michael Laudrup, Peter Schmeichel, Nicklas Bendtner (soccer players), Lars von Trier (film director)

Danes Who Ought to Be Dead: Jante.

Famous Half Danes: Viggo Mortensen, Scarlett Johansson, Ludvig Holberg.

Danish Oscar Winners for Best Foreign Film: Gabriel Axel (Babette's Feast, 1987), Bille August (Pelle the Conqueror, 1988), Susanne Bier (In Another World, 2011)
Biggest Danish Film Star of All Time: Asta Nielsen (from the Silent Age. Known as Die Asta by the Germans, and other adorable riff-raff)

Most Famous Danish Building: The Opera House in Sydney.

Famous Danish Companies You Probably Would Want to Boycott If You Were a Muslim Who Don't Care For Our Cartoons: Arla, Lego, Maersk, Ecco, Vesta, Bang and Olufsen, Danfoss, Carlsberg, Tuborg.

Daily Smokers: 10% of population. (All of them will be sitting in your outdoor café of choice)

Obesity Rate: 22% of population.

McDonalds Restaurants in Denmark: 25

Best Danish Food: Moss, lichen, and bone marrow.

Denmark's Claim to Fame in Great Britain: Bacon.

Denmark's Claim to Fame in Spain, Greece, and Cyprus: Blond girls with herpes.

Denmark's Claim to Fame in the Far East: Badminton.

Denmark's Claim to Fame in the Middle East: Cartoons.

Most Important Danish Invention of All Time: The atomic bomb (Niels Bohr)

Denmark's Biggest Contribution to American Sports: Morten Andersen, the all-time leading scorer in the NFL.

Best Tourist Attraction If You're Into Knights in Shining Armour: 1. Frederiksborg castle, Hillerød. 2. Kronborg (Hamlet's castle), Elsinore. 3. Egeskov, Funen.

Best Tourist Attraction If You're Eight Years Old or Behaving Like It: Legoland.

Best Tourist Attraction If You're Eighty Years Old or Behaving Like It: Tivoli.

Most Overrated Tourist Attraction That You Shouldn't Waste Your Time With But God Knows You Will: The Little Mermaid.

Time of Glory I: When the Danish vikings conquered England in the 11th century.

Time Of Glory II: When Denmark won the European Championship in soccer in 1992 and the whole country behaved like a frat party.

This is the kind of abuse we Danes have to tolerate every day: Foreigners who fondle our national treasure as if she were a common strumpet. Shameless, that's what it is.

Biggest International Danish Hit of All Time But Please Don't Listen to It: Barbie Girl by Aqua.

Danish TV-Series That Was a Great Hit in the UK and Now Has Its Own Popular Spin Off In The US: The Killing (Forbrydelsen)

Worst Danish Accent by Great Actress: Meryl Streep as Karen Blixen in Out of Africa

Most Sold Danish Novel Since The Time of Hans Christian Andersen: Smilla's Sense of Snow by Peter Høeg.

Most Beautiful Cities in Denmark: Copenhagen, Helsingør (Elsinore), Ærøskøbing, Faaborg, Ribe, Skagen, Svaneke, Århus.

Places to Avoid at All Costs Unless You Have A Secret Death Wish: Mørke, Ringsted, Brøndby, Fisketorvet.

Best Months to Visit Our Fine Country: Late May, June, July, August.

Best Month to Commit Suicide Because It's Dark, Dreary, and Everybody Wish They Were in Thailand: January.

Best Danish Traits: Tolerance, sense of humor, informality.

Worst Danish Traits: Intolerance, pettiness, self-satisfied melancholy.

What You'll Miss the Most If You're an American Visiting Denmark: TV anchors with perfect teeth.

What You'll Miss the Most If You're Italian: Bread and Berlusconi.

What You'll Miss the Most If You're Norwegian: Norway

Most Beautiful Area of Denmark: The Silkeborg lake district in Jutland and the island of Bornholm.

Most Stupid Thing to Say to a Dane: Now, which part of Germany are you from again ...?

Second Most Stupid Thing to Say to a Dane: I've just been to Sweden. It's my favorite Scandinavian country.

Enjoy your stay, but do bring all your credit cards. Copenhagen is the second most expensive capital in the world, but hey, we mean well.

Copyright, Peter H. Fogtdal, Danish Accent, 2008, 2009, 2011

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