Danish Accent

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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The Day Copenhagen Became the United Colors of Bennetton

2011-09-26T16:49:00.000-07:00

The world came to Copenhagen on the last day of the Road Championship for Men in Cycling. 250,000 spectators watched the 264 kilometer race on a sunny day in late September. And I do mean 250,000, not 248,322 - I counted.

It was an incredible event. Mark Cavendish became world champ when he beat Matthew Gross from Australia and Andre Greipel of Germany in the sprint. Denmark was without Matti Breschel who won the silver medal last year, so we didn't stand a chance.

But who cares? The world came to north of Copenhagen, and we all got along for a day or two. Somebody will probably write a cheesy pop song about it, and I'll definitely buy it.

The world championship in cycling was the biggest sports event ever in Denmark. And it proved to the world that we love foreigners. As long as they promise to leave again, of course ...

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The World Championship In Cycling In Copenhagen: Hey, I'm Rooting For Eritrea

2011-09-22T08:22:00.000-07:00

Copenhagen, Denmark has become the most silent capital in the world.

Cars aren't allowed in the historical part of downtown. Bikes have taken over for five days. You could say that Copenhagen is Paradise on earth for people who don't enjoy exhaustion fumes. So welcome to the Road Race World Championship that has brought a major North European city to a most poetic halt.

You have a lot of Danes who complain about the event, of course. We wouldn't be Danes if we didn't. That's why we're the happiest people on earth because we have so many great things to bitch about.

"A road race shouldn't take place in the middle of the city," people complain, writing angry letters to the editor and abusing the many volunteers protecting the riders. These Danes worry about all those sweaty foreigners coming in stealing our girls and our gold medals.

So who do I root for at the World Championship? Denmark, of course. So far we've won one gold medal and one bronze, but hey, my hearts beats for Eritrea, too.

That's right, Eritrea, the proud African country north of Ethiopia has a rich biking culture .... I think? And they've brought their own group of cheerleaders to Rådhuspladsen, the main square in Copenhagen. So have the Swedes who live ten miles away and the Norwegians who are known for bringing flags the size of mattresses.

The Devil is in Copenhagen, too. He's known by all spectators at Tour de France and other major races, smartly dressed in black and red with a long gray beard and eyes shining with benign insanity. His name is Didi Senft and he's probably my favorite German - right after Hermann Hesse and Claudia Schiffer, of course.

The course went through the Danish Parliament Christiansborg and Amalienborg, the Queen's castle. Wednesday afternoon Her Majesty was getting a facial in the privacy of her own bedroom when Gustav Larsson rode right through her bidet. No wonder we've fought the Swedes in more than five wars.

Here are some more pictures from the biggest sports event in Denmark ever.

What I loved the most was that my reserved countrymen cheered up. They started smiling at strangers which actually is considered a misdemeanor in Scandinavia. The mayhem in Copenhagen became a bonding experience for everybody, and suddenly old ladies were flashing Jakob Fuglsang and Lithuanian time trialists that no one had ever heard of.

By the way, Germany's Tony Martin won the men's time trial beating Bradley Wiggins from Great Britain and Switzerland's world champion Fabian Cancellara. But the moral winners were the Danes who were taken hostage by the World Championship and discovered they liked it.

But hey, a few of us are still cheering for the riders from Eritrea...

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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.

********************
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.

Please share:

Warning: This Blog About Conspiracies Is One Big Conspiracy

2011-05-05T10:20:00.000-07:00

1.
Osama bin Laden isn't dead. I saw him shopping at Walmart yesterday.

His third wife was with him, and so were a few of the other hot shots from Al-Qaeda, munching out on pork sandwiches. They enjoy the freedom of the West, those bastards - Osama even has season tickets for the Dodgers, and he now prefers 7-Eleven to 9.11.

But no, the US government wants us to believe that Mr. Darkness With a Beard was killed in Pakistan. They claim they have pictures of the killing, but we're not allowed to see them. They're too gruesome, but hey, we're used to gruesome - we watch Extreme Makeover on ABC, and that's what Osama's doppelganger got in that mansion north of Islamabad.

2.
No, take my word for it, Osama bin Laden is far from dead. He just moved to Paraguay where he bought a house next to Hitler. Adolf has lived there for years, tending his roses, doing the odd karaoke show with Marlene Dietrich. Protected by who? The Zionists and the CIA, of course. But the government refuses to publish these pictures as well, fearing that they'll cause a riot in Nazi Germany.

3.
Yes, it's sad but true. We're lied to all the time by our governments, and we're not going to take it anymore. Here are some facts that the world doesn't want to hear:

Princess Diana was killed by MI5 and Prince Charles because she was going to marry a Muslim. John Lennon was killed by Paul McCartney because Macca was upset that Revolution No. 9 made it on The White Album. And Neil Armstrong never landed on the moon, he landed in Norway.

And the next time I catch Osama bin Laden, buying the new Glenn Beck book at Walmart, I'm damn well going to post the pictures on Facebook.

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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Syria Is A Dream, But Journalists and Lesbians Are Not Allowed

2011-03-29T13:01:00.000-07:00

There is a snake in the courtyard. And I'm not talking about Bashar al-Assad, the Syrian dictator, even though God knows I should.

No, this is a tiny but poisonous snake. You wouldn't expect to find one in the middle of Damascus, but here it is at the Danish institute, waiting to bite a degenerate Dane and all the other authors, scholars, and painters who are working and studying at this gorgeous place.

One of the Syrian guards catches the snake and puts it in a glass. "It's very dangerous," he says with a big smile and starts to play with the reptile. I almost feel sorry for it. A snake doesn't look right in a tea glass. On a desk. In the Danish Institute in the middle of the Syrian capital.

"And now," the guard adds, "we're waiting for the snake mother."

Some of the other guests go pale.

"What ... what do you mean?" an older scholar asks nervously. He's only used to deal with Rumi, so this is too much.

"The snake mother will come to seek revenge, of course" the Syrian beams.

That night none of us sleep well at the institute. We are all waiting for an angry mother snake, attacking us through our bed sheets, ready for the kill.

2.
I'm reminded of this innocent scene from my 2007 visit to Syria.

Those were the days when Bashar-al-Assad and his state psychos had everything under control. Luckily, they don't anymore. Syria is coming undone, and I hope things will end well because the Syrians are some of the most generous and warm people I've ever met.

The Danish Institute is situated in an old Arab villa in the suq in Damascus. When you walk out of the door, you're in the middle of 1001 Nights. It's a magical place with a small fountain, gorgeous walls, and a high iwan.

The villa is a national treasure. Most of the construction is from the 17th century, but one wall is actually from before Christ. It used to be part of a Roman wall. So here I am, surrounded by sultans, baby snakes, and the smell of apostles and curry.

I've always been crazy about the Middle East. Maybe it's because my grand father was born in Safed eighty miles away, in what today is Northern Israel. He was born Jewish but his father was a Coptic Christian with an Arab background, so I'm happy to say I carry that confusion inside of me.

3.
One of the many fantastic places in old Damascus is the Umayyad mosque, among the most important in the Muslim world. It's a ten minute walk through the suq with its donkeys, silk vendors, and water bearers.

The mosque is not just a place for prayers and agitation as we like to think in the West; it's also a place where kids play grab ass and where you meet a lot of Syrians. One day I run into Zeid - a student of English literature at the University of Damascus.

"So what writers do you study?" I ask.

"William Shakespeare, Lord Byron, and Henrik Ibsen," he says.

"Henrik Ibsen is actually Norwegian," I smile.

"Thank you so much. I'll bring this important information to my professor," he says solemnly.

Zeid is a nice guy. His English is decent, so I take him to a restaurant with my favorite lesbians from the institute, the Danish author and critic, Leonora Christina Skov and an illustrator friend. It's Ramadan. Everybody is chewing on their head scarfs, but most Syrians succeed in being pleasant until around 5 pm. Then they just can't take it anymore.

When we return to the institute, we're told they have found three more snakes. A few hours later, a Syrian terminator shows up. He looks like a reptile himself, sticking his tongue out, putting out poison in every conceivable hole, including some of my mine. After half an hour, the whole place stinks like a chemical plant.

"We've never had snakes here before," the secretary complains. "Only a few adorable scorpions in my office."

However, the Institute is always infested - it's full of hidden microphones; we are pretty sure about that. Several of the people who work there are definitely informants. We are probably followed when we venture out into Damascus. Syria is one of the most efficient police states in the Arab world, and at one point, a Syrian tells me that he is forced to have a picture of Assad in his shop.

"I would have preferred Cameron Diaz," he says.

4.
The snakes finally disappear from the institute. Or so it seems.

One day I visit one of the many Internet cafes in modern Damascus - a place that looks like East Berlin in the sixties. As usual, most of the visitors are local men watching porn. I try not to notice their erections, but I'm sure the secret police does.

I want to publish a piece on my blog, but blogspot.com is forbidden in Syria. It's hardly surprising because the first time I was in Damascus Hotmail.com was forbidden. My second time here it was Yahoo's turn to cause the wrath of the regime.

Leonora and her friend have the same kind of problem. When they try to get into the official Danish website for homosexuals, they are met by the stern picture of Bashar-Al-Assad, may peace not be upon him.

In a certain sense, it's logical. Bashar-Al-Assad sees everything. Before he became a dictator, he worked as an eye doctor - my condolences go out to the world of optometry.

But soon, his regime will be history. Let's pray for that. Syria deserves a lot better, so I'd like to dedicate this blog entry to all the Syrians who have had enough. May Allah and all gods in the universe be with you.

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

Couldn't the UN Conduct a No-Donald Trump Fly Zone Over America, Please?

2011-03-24T10:52:00.000-07:00

Donald Trump's latest housing project for the poor in Libya which luckily is making a great profit?

1.
I admire Donald Trump so much for his work for the poor I won't even make fun of his hair.

I'm sure it's a shrewd business decision to look the way he does. Or perhaps The Donald has discovered it's easier to pick up East European women when you have that Used Car Salesman from Tuscaloosa vibe.

No, the only thing that seriously worries me about the Master Builder, bless his heart, is that he might be running for President. Not for Legoland, unfortunately, but for the United States of America. As if there was any difference.

Right now 10% of Republicans voters would for him in the primaries. The rest will probably die laughing, but then again, how sure can we be of that? It's probably an anchor from Fox News who'll win the Republican nomination in 2012. If not, it'll be a Mormon with a wallet of gold who loves accusing Obama of being too 'nuanced'. That's right. Seeing a point of view from two sides should definitely disqualify you from any public office.

2
No, seriously, America needs Donald Trump for President as much as it needs a nuclear power plant in Central Park. The man's ego makes most Hollywood stars look like Mother Teresa. The Donald can't even open his mouth without bragging about how his own brilliance. A few days ago, he told the world how he had screwed Qaddafi when the Libyan leader was in New York and needed a place to park his tent. I hope Trump didn't mean 'screwed' in the literal sense because Republicans don't like gay sex with Arabs.

But as most politicians with their minds on 2012, Trump is everywhere on TV. He's been on The View, Piers Morgan Tonight, and Extreme Makeover. Last week he even was a guest on Comedy Channel's Roast with a sun tan that made him look like Berlusconi on his way to a bunga bunga party.

A lot of famous and not-so-famous comedians roasted the Master Builder of Kitsch; the funniest of them was Snoop Dogg who said, “Donald claims he wants to run for President and move into the White House. Why not? It wouldn’t be the first time you pushed a black family out of their home.”

The Donald has also joined the birthers, the right wing Obama haters who believe that the world is flat and that Charlton Heston truly was Moses. On The View Mr. Trump expressed his doubts about Obama's birth certificate because "no one remembered Obama in Hawai when he was four." Sometimes I wish we could say the same about Donald Trump's life.

3.
So please, Mr. Apprentice, don't run for President, even though you definitely would be as qualified as Lindsay Lohan. A country shouldn't be run as a business empire, just ask the Third World and Italy about that.

But if The Donald insists on becoming the laughing stock of civilization, the UN should conduct a no-Trump fly zone over America to protect the sanity of us all.

Donald Trump taking a nap on a park bench in Santa Monica before his first appearance on Extreme Makeover.

*****

Thank God, Sarah Palin Is Going to Israel to Visit Benjamin Netanyahu and That Other Guy on the Cross

2011-03-17T10:57:00.000-07:00

1.
I'm so happy that Sarah Palin is going to Israel.

When I saw it on CNN, I broke down and cried because finally, the world has found someone who can solve the Middle East crisis.

Jimmy Carter, Bill Clinton, and Joe the Plumber failed miserably, but who cares about that now? None of those gentlemen had Sarah Palin's touch. After all, Sarah has shot moose in the wilderness, so why shouldn't she be able to deal with Benjamin Netanyahu?

The only thing that worries me is Sarah Palin's lack of knowledge; how she often mixes up Lebanon with Libya, Hamas with hummus, and Jesus with Judas. Foreigners tend to be anal about those things, but I'm sure there is nothing to worry about it. She will be briefed by Kate Curic.

2.
Let's face it: this is great for democracy in the Middle East. The ex-governor of Alaska is probably the most gifted politician America ever has produced. She got it all: political instinct, charisma, and a daughter who has been on Dancing With The Stars - that's more than you can say about Abraham Lincoln.

So stop worrying about Sarah Palin humiliating the US on her world tour. She'll leave that to Joe Biden and Charlie Sheen. No, just wait, adorable Sarah Palin will take the world by storm. First, she'll go to India to solve the Pakistan crisis, then she'll drive back the next tsunami to hit Japan, and she'll end her tour in Libya, offering Qaddafi a starring role on Mad Men.

God bless, Sarah Palin. Let's hope she'll run for president in 2012. According to the Mayans, that's the year the world is going to end, anyway.

*****

How To Sleep With An Author In The Comfort Of Your Own Head

2011-03-03T21:34:00.000-08:00

1.
It's a difficult choice.

It's always a difficult choice: Who to sleep with. So many writers, so little time. But at Sylvia Beach Hotel you can choose between the cream of the American and British crop. You can shag up with Mark Twain. You can cuddle with Agatha Christie. You can share saliva with Scott Fitzgerald. Or how about enjoying your nightmares with the one and only Edgar Allen Poe?

That's what we did at this wonderful hotel in Nye Beach in Newport, Oregon. It's a theme hotel. All rooms are named after a famous writer. Sluts as we are, we slept with three, the first being Edgar.

If you don't know Edgar Allen Poe, I'll tell you this: That man was seriously messed up - like a latter day Lou Reed with a keen eye for the poodle droppings of life. Just looking at his portrait was enough to make your skin crawl. And his room was creepy as well. Dark red colors, pictures of ravens (not exactly the most cheerful bird around), and an axe above the bed to keep you on edge. It wasn't a healthy room to stay in. After a few hours I actually tried to murder my wife twice.

2.
The next morning we moved out and took a walk on the beach. It was a gorgeous day. No dead bodies around, just your odd Christian fundamentalist gazing wistfully at the young girls.

We went back to the hotel and had a wonderful breakfast. Those are hard to come by in the US, unless you're infatuated with plastic spoons. But at Sylvia Beach Hotel they actually have a bit of class: Pancakes, sausages, soy milk, and only a few of those bagels that taste like cardboard.

At noon we moved into the Gertrud Stein room. It was a small place with a lesbian cabinet, a few of her letters on the wall, and some nice unattractive pictures of the writer. We felt much better in those surroundings, even though there wasn't much of a view. But you can't have all in life. That's what my grand mother used to say before she was run over by an ice cream truck.

By the way, there are a lot of cats at Sylvia Beach Hotel. For an extra twenty dollars you can have one sleep on your belly - they should call it Rent-A-Cat, it sure beats Avis. Maybe they should have a house penguin as well. I have a weakness for animals in suits.

3.
On the third floor, there's a library with beat up chairs and a fantastic view of the ocean. I tried to reserve all the chairs as the Germans do, but we Scandinavians just can't get away with that.

Sylvia Beach is an easy place to connect with book nerds. Even New Yorkers become mellow when they look at the sea. Several times I strolled through the small library at the hotel. It has an impressive collection of all the books a writer ought to read - you know, the so-called classics. Those dreadful books that only have one purpose in life, to make you feel like shit because you haven't read them.

4.
The third night was a treat. Luckily, a nice couple got the swine flue and didn't show up, so the kind people in the reception offered us the suite - the Agatha Christie room, with four windows facing the ocean, a fireplace, and an old typewriter.

God, I loved it. Everything had a twenties feel (or a thirties feel, what do I know?) I could just picture Miss Marple looking for murder clues in the ashtray, or Hercule Poirot driving everybody insane with his Belgian accent. The room was so wonderful I decided I'd never leave - I actually handcuffed myself to the bedpost instead of paying the bill. I've now been barred for life, but sometimes you just have to make a statement.

In the afternoon we got fogged in, too. The coast disappeared, and the seagulls looked pleased when they defecated on our windows. That night I slept like an angel wrapped up with my pale wife who kept on having nightmares about Edgar Allen Poe and ravens.

5.
So what can I say? I've stayed at hotels around the world. I've been smothered in Thailand, spoiled in Syria, and humiliated in Costa Rica, but the Sylvia Beach Hotel in Nye Beach, Oregon is something else.

And I'm definitely going back one day. I just have one small request, and I don't think it's unreasonable: Please name a room after me. I know I'm not that important a writer (except for in my own mind), so the Peter H. Fogtdal broom closet will do. Or how about one of those bathrooms where the toilets won't flush - I would be happy with that, too.

That's how humble I am, seriously!

****
Check out The Sylvia Beach Hotel here!

*Rewritten version of blog entry from the summer of 2008

Another Stampede at My Book Presentation at UCLA? (Not Exactly, But At Least I Was Dry Humped By A Squirrel)

2011-02-22T10:02:00.000-08:00

1.
I just did my second presentation of The Tsar's Dwarf at UCLA. I was there a year ago as well, and now I was called back to inflict some more pain on the students.

If you haven't heard of UCLA, you're probably dead. Or worse, you're not American. UCLA is an unbelievably prestigious university that's lying in the heart of L.A. next to this place called Hollywood.

You might have heard of Hollywood. That's the town where O.J. Simpson kills his wives and Leonardo di Caprio gets laid.

Well, I was invited to speak in two classes - a Hans Christian Andersen course and a Søren Kierkegaard philosophy class. I would lie if I said I was humbled by the experience, because I have an advantage when it comes to those two Great Danes: I'm alive and they're not. So I took full advantage of that, promoting myself shamelessly, talking about the existentialism in my writing. The fact that I've never read Kierkegaard didn't stop me, either. I'm not an academic, I'm allowed to be as ignorant as George Bush.

2.
When you walk around UCLA's gorgeous campus, you discover that even the buildings are celebrities. I pass Ronald Reagan Medical Center, Herb Albert's School of Music, and Cher's Institute for Plastic Surgery.

When I was here a year ago as part of My Pretentious World Tour, I dreamed that a lot of celebrities would show up for my reading. I pictured Charlie Sheen dropping by, trashing Royce Hall because I wouldn't give him my autograph. Or Mel Gibson going into one of his famous rants against all the Jews working in the canteen.

This time I've stopped dreaming. I'm more than happy "just" talking to eighty students. They're absolutely wonderful and adorable. A few of them even send me emails afterward, thanking me for coming.

Yes, I love UCLA. I could get addicted to the sunshine, the palm trees, and the sophomores drooling over iPads. It seems as if UCLA loves me back because when I enjoy a sandwich outside, I'm dry humped by a squirrel. I mean, how much more can a small Scandinavian author ask for?

3.
Since UCLA is so close to Hollywood, I can't help dreaming of The Tsar's Dwarf being turned into a movie. It would be very cheap to produce, only half of Avatar's budget.

Seriously, all you need is a set with 18th century Saint Petersburg and Copenhagen, a cake the size of a church, a convent with horny monks and evil priests, a rarity cabinet with seven feet giants and eskimos, a few vomit basins, twenty sledges pulled by Siberian tigers, an actor who looks like Peter the Great (any white basketball player will do), and a cast of 64 dwarfs waiting to get married in a ballroom with miniature canons.

Honestly, Danish novels should become the new Hollywood addiction. So if any of you fat cats from MGM, Sony, Warner Brothers, Paramount, Miramax, and Fox Searchlight are reading this, you're more than welcome to start with mine. And please, now when you're at it, would you mind putting me up in one of those fancy villas at Venice Beach? That place feels like a film set, anyway.

*********

Oh Berlusconi, Just Wait Till Erection Day (Sorry, I Meant Election Day)

2011-02-12T11:11:00.000-08:00

1.
It's all over for Silvio Berlusconi.

The problem is that it's been all over for the Italian Prime Minister for decades. This man has been involved in more scandals than Charlie Sheen. The only difference is that Sheen trashes hotel rooms, Berlusconi trashes a country.

However, Berlusconi is still the Prime Minister of Italy. He seem to survive everything: screwing minors, insulting world leaders, buying other politicians, arranging bunga bunga parties. But then again, our Silvio is probably an incarnation of Caligula. A Roman Emperor needs his orgies. We should just be happy that Berlusconi hasn't named his horse a senator yet, but I'm sure it's only a question of time.

2.
Why does Italy elect Berlusconi? The answer is simple. He's a multi-millionaire, he's as charming as a reptile, and he owes most TV-stations and newspapers of importance. Italy isn't really a democracy in anyone's book. It's a mafia infested museum with incredible people, the most beautiful language in the world, and sixty million citizens who have no faith in their own government whoever leads. So "Berlusconi isn't worse than the others," a lot of Italians argue, shaking their world weary heads.

"I have no idea who votes for Berlusconi," my Italian novelist friend Roberto Pazzi once told me. "Seriously, I don't know a single person who does."

All my other Italian friends say the same. They hate Berlusconi, they're ashamed of his corrupt politics, his lame jokes, and his saggy balls that are flapping in the breeze. The man is 74 years old, he is more sun tanned than John Boehner, and he keeps on passing laws that benefit his own business empire - and always when Parliament is about to go on vacation.

Silvio Berlusconi is so indecent he gives the Mafia a bad name. At least, the Mafia has some sick morals. Berlusconi has none, only his appetite ... but still he gets elected again and again. Still, he is saved by other politicians in Parliament who are bought, bribed, and who perhaps get an invitation to one of the bunga bunga parties where blow jobs are a way of life?

Berlusconi is likely to be reelected. And one day he'll become President of the Republic, too. And when he dies, the Pope will probably make him a saint, since the Vatican has deep compassion for those who have been accused of sexual abuse ...

3.
Sometimes we have to ask ourselves a very hard question: Why do we get the leaders we get?

They must be an expression of the collective unconsciousness and our national psyche. In Denmark our leaders are bland and mediocre. In Sweden they are competent and boring. In Italy they're untrustworthy but wildly entertaining.

Our leaders seem to be a mirror of our nation's dark side, so no wonder we all often suffer from chronic indigestion when it comes to politics.

*****

A Danish Jesusland In The Middle Of The Orange Groves?

2011-01-31T13:38:00.000-08:00

1.
It's a wet dream for any Dane.

You're driving down a street in generic Yorba Linda, south of Los Angeles. The palm trees are swaying in the Californian wind. It's 71 gorgeous degrees on this Saturday in January; the mountains are glowing in the sun ... and suddenly you see it.

At first you think you're hallucinating. After all, it's not easy being a Dane far away from home missing Lars von Trier ... but right in front of you you see something that looks like a Danish sognekirke, a white church. You do a double take. Maybe this isn't Southern California after all; maybe you're in Øster Ulslev without knowing it?

But no, this Danish church is frighteningly real.

I step out of the car, and several Danes greet me. They all speak English, probably because they want to be sure I understand them. Then we head for the entrance ... but suddenly I stop dead in my tracks and stare at a huge rock by the door.

No, this can't be true. It's Jellingestenen, one of the most important historical monuments in Denmark. When did these nice people steal it? And more important, how did they get it through customs?

"Very nice," I smile hurrying through the door like a madman, knowing that these Danes aren't well. They must be common criminals. I mean, what am I going to find in the church next? The severed head of The Little Mermaid? Or Hans Christian Andersen's boner?

2.
Actually, I'm here to talk about my novel, The Tsar's Dwarf that was translated into English two years ago. Fifty people have shown up for Books & Breakfast. They serve Danish pastry, rye bread, and me. Luckily, these funky Americans and delightful Danes turn out to be a lovely audience. They even forgive me for my sins; something Christ hasn't come around to yet, but I guess He's otherwise engaged.

Most of my book talks aren't for Danes, but I always enjoy visiting Danish cultural centers. Here in Yorba Linda, they even have a red Danish mailbox - what more can you ask for? I'm so grateful I feel like mailing some threatening letters to my accountant in Stege, but I decide against it. I feel too uplifted by meeting these people who have read my novel in their book club while doing yoga under the tolerant eyes of our Danish God.

When I leave the Lutheran church and it disappears behind palm trees of Orange County, I have tears in my eyes.

Legend has it that the Danish flag fell from the sky in Estonia in 1219.

That's not true. Now I know it was in Yorba Linda.

Disagree With Me: The 10 Best Films of the Year (If You're an English Speaker Who Hates Subtitles, That Is)

2011-01-22T11:22:00.000-08:00

I love the Oscars, even though they're ridiculous.

Only a retard would argue that the Best Film awards are for the best films of the year. They're for the Best Films in English, since it's very rare that a film with subtitles will be allowed in this most important of categories. Foreign Films have their own awards - an award that is about as important as Best Catering.

But don't get me wrong: I love a lot of American or British indies and the occasional Hollywood blockbuster, and I want to prove that here. So here is my take on the films that should have been nominated for the Oscars.

I've rated them, too. Five stars are for masterpieces; four are for great films; three are for okay; two are for mediocre yawnfests, and one is for 'sue the damn director.'

Please feel free to disagree with me! I disagree with myself all the time.

The Films That Should Be Nominated for Best Film (But 'Shutter Island' and 'I Love You Philip Morris' Won't Be Which Is Unfair):

Inception *****
A damn masterpiece from Christopher Nolan and an instant classic, especially if you're interested in consciousness, dreams, and stunning cinematography. And this is coming from a man (me) who is left cold by other mind benders like The Matrix. Inception has a spiritual depth the others don't if you ask me, and you just did. Should win the Oscar for Best Film but definitely won't.

Black Swan ****1/2
The second best film of the year. What's amazing about Black Swan is that it works on two levels, as a horror flick but also as a 'serious' art film about creation. We have to integrate our dark sides to become artists. Trying to be perfect doesn't do the job. Natalie Portman is amazing and will win the Oscar, of course.

And:
The King's Speech ****1/2
The Social Network ****1/2
Shutter Island ****1/2
The Kids Are All Right ****
I Love You, Philip Morris ****
Blue Valentine ****
The Ghost Writer ****
The Fighter ****
The Town ***1/2
Get Low ***1/2

Some of The Also Rans That Were Merely Okay or Really Not (Yes, I'm Looking At You 'Wall Street: Money Never Sleepse and 'Eat, Pray, and Love'):

Somewhere ***1/2
Four Lions ***1/2
True Grit ***1/2
Please Give ***
Greenberg ***
City Island ***
Morning Glory ***
The Hereafter **1/2 (Love the subject matter but biggest disappointment of 2010)
Leap Year **
Eat, Pray, Love **
Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps *1/2
The latter was the worst Hollywood film of the year. Screenplay writers should study how not to use a narrator, and everybody else should marvel at how irrelevant and boring Oliver Stone can be when he tries to revamp an old success. Yawn, yawn. Stone will come back though. If his audience will is another matter.

And yes, I haven't seen all the films of the year, just like all of the Oscar voters, so maybe Toy Story 3 and A Winter's Bone are a must.

However, if you English speakers are interested in films with subtitles (gasp), go and see the Danish Golden Globe Winner, Susanne Bier's In A Better World (Hævnen), Biutiful (Mexico, Spain) or even the overrated but interesting Io Sono Amore (I Am Love) from Italy.

Long live the movies!

****

Joan Rivers in Portland - The Most Hilarious and Adorable Sewer in America

2011-01-12T11:22:00.000-08:00

1.
It doesn't get much better. Or worse.

Saturday night Joan Rivers was in Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall in Portland where she did her stand up comedy. It's totally impossible to think of a comedian more outrageously judgmental than this queen of the zinger. She almost makes Ricky Gervais look like a choir boy.

For an hour and a half, 77-year old Joan Rivers told us about all the people she hates and despises: Lesbians, kids on airplanes, Victoria Beckham, Mel Gibson, cripples who slow everybody down, women suffering from breast cancer, dead people, beggars, Mother Teresa, The Three Wise Men, Jackie Kennedy, obesity, Oprah's ass, Chinese women, and men with balls that look like tea bags.

For reasons unknown to mankind, Joan Rivers appeared with the Oregon Symphony Orchestra at her show in Portland. "A sick and stupid idea," she told the audience. And it sure was. But it worked. No one wants to be offended for two and a half hours, but 75 minutes are a fucking delight!

By the way, when Joan Rivers was a small Jewish girl in New York, she wrote a letter to Hitler begging him to find a place for a classmate in his concentration camps.

She also makes important confessions: "Do you know why I love anal sex? Because you can do other things while your man is at it. You can read a book. You can check your email..."

Joan hates people with annoying disabilities as well: "Why do blind people need an apartment with a view? They can't even pay you a proper compliment like 'you look wonderful today'. Blind people are so self absorbed. It's all about them."

2.
So was this show in poor taste?

Absolutely not. We all have a dark judgmental side in our heads that pop up when we don't feel well - a voice that tells us how irritating and disgusting other people are. So the show is actually an interesting and hilarious study of our dark side. It's only those self righteous people who identify with being 'all good' or 'true Christians' who will be extremely offended by a show like this.

People with self awareness are painfully aware of their own inner Joan Rivers - that gorgeous and angry sewer that most of us learn to control, so it doesn't do serious damage to our environment.

3.
People who have read my novels or some of my blog entries won't be surprised that I love black humor.

Actually, I wish that Joan Rivers was a damn dwarf because then she could play Sorine in the film version of The Tsar's Dwarf. When I wrote the character in that novel, I was aware that I was channeling my own angry and judgmental side in (hopefully) a tragic, humorous and artistic way. And man, it felt good writing a character that was both honest, wicked and strangely adorable.

So is Joan Rivers.

I'm not sure I would want to invite her to my meditation group (she might tear off my chakras), but I'll continue to admire her honesty and comedy from afar...

*****