No, Oprah, Danes Aren't Happy. We're Patriots on Painkillers

1.
It's old news now.

Danes are the happiest people on earth. That survey came out in June, 2008, and just a month ago Oprah dedicated a TV-show to us happy Danes. What's our secret? Why are we always so goddamn happy? Even when we shop for carrots we're the Embodiment of Bliss. And when we throw poor refugees out of the country we smile because we live here and they don't.

So what's up? Are our expectations lower than others? Are we happy because our welfare state works (kind of), or do we simply take pride in the fact that we invented Lego?

If you've ever played with Lego, you know it makes you happy, right? Well, that's what we Danes are all about, supposedly.




2.
But seriously, what is the reason?

To me, Danes come out as number one because we take excessive pride in our country, not for any other reason. We'll tell foreigners what we have known for years that we're the best. Better than the flag waving boy scouts in Norway. Better than the Americans who still can't offer decent health care to their poor. And better than Bhutan .... er, okay, forget about Bhutan. We don't really know anything about it, we just know we're better.

But are we seriously happy?

No, Danes aren't happy, we're patriots. That's what the survey reflects. We simply suffer from The Small Country Syndrome. We're tired of being taken for Swedes or Germans. We want to come out of our Southern Scandinavian closet; we simply want to be seen!

That's what the coming UN Climate Conference in Copenhagen is about as well. See us, appreciate how much we do for the environment, admire us.

But happy? No, how could we be? Most of us Danes don't believe in anything, not even in ourselves. Our only God is the welfare state. That has become the church we worship.




3.
But Oprah, next time you come to Denmark, please continue to celebrate us, because we do have a great little country with socialized medicine and trendy windmills. And Denmark is still the kind of fairy tale place where it makes national news when a gang member fires a bullet into a park bench.

But if you walk around Copenhagen on a cold November day, you won't see much happiness. You'd see people in their own comatose world, walking to and fro with plastic bags and briefcases, not saying hello to any one, not smiling through their painkillers, just going about their business in the dreary drizzle.

Strangely enough, if you want happiness, you'd see more of that in a poor village in India or Bali - maybe because they have 52 million gods to help them with their pain?

***
Read my award winning blog entry, Denmark for Dummies: A Superficial Introduction to the Happiest Country in the World.

Milking a Cash Cow in India (The Joys of Bad Karma?)

1.
I love India.

I've been here about eight times. I love the spirituality of this great country. And when I get tired of that, there are always the strong colors, the humorous people, and the best spicy food in the world.

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

Varanasi is India at its best and worst. It's colorful, charismatic, loud, polluted, dirty, generous, kind, obnoxious, spiritual, and deeply criminal. Everybody wants something from you. Sometimes it's your soul, most of the time, it's just your money.

I ran into a wonderful 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.




2.
I was walking down the colorful alleys of the old city avoiding the cow dung, the beggars, and the scrawny cows feasting on plastic bags.

A man came up to me and started to talk. His English was good, 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 totally 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 (freight?). The fire that was used for the cremation was lit thousands of years ago and had never gone out.

I started to cough. I've always been sensitive to inhaling the deceased.

My guide looked at me with that pious look he had practiced in front of the mirror, "Look around, Sir. Look at all the people bringing the 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," my guide 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 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.

When that was done, my guide stepped forward and asked me to give a donation of 2000 rupees 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've asked God for cash. "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, convinced that this was a 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 a 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 the patient-free hospice.




3.
The first minutes afterward I was shaken. Had I been too harsh? Could I be so sure that it was a scam? Maybe the Western volunteer was right in his criticism. Why didn't we tourists give more money to the poor when we easily could afford it?

But then I remembered the sinister atmosphere, the intimidation, and the spitting when these people didn't get what they wanted. And the more I thought about it, the more I knew that my money never would end where it was supposed to.

So I was happy with the outcome. 250 rupees to experience something as wonderfully absurd as this was a damn bargain.





4.
By the way, it's important for me to say I have the deepest respect for the Hindu religion, so if any one finds the above disrespectful, I apologize. But I reserve the right to be facetious when spirituality is being abused. And spirituality often is, in India and everywhere else.

But needless to say, scams are a small part of India. The country is so picturesque it's impossible to take a bad picture.

This time I enjoyed my aimless walks along the Ganges and in the alleys of Varanasi - one of the most incredible places I've ever been. I enjoyed the masala dosas at the local grease joint, I enjoyed my talks with Mr. Namit Agnihotri, the general manager at The Gateway, one of the finest hotels in Varanasi (I recommend it highly). And hey, I did run into several holy cows and Goldie Hawn - the latter actually stayed at my hotel, but she "disappointed" me greatly by not asking for a signed copy of The Tsar's Dwarf.


5.
When I left Varanasi I saw a great sign in the airport. YOU'RE BEING WATCHED, it said.

That's good news for us narcissists.





***************

My Pretentious World Tour: Now at Lingnan University, Hong Kong

1.
"Sterilize in every hour," says the sign at my hotel in Hong Kong.

The sign is referring to the elevator keyboard - this potentially germ, bacteria infested death trap that will give you the swine flu the second you push any button.

Yes, it's not easy to survive in this world with so many dangers. The first time I was in Hong Kong everybody was afraid of SARS. Now it's the swine flu, but as long as you don't touch anything you should be safe.

Let's face it, life is a death sentence - even if we "sterilize in every hour".




2.
Apart from the paranoia, Hong Kong is an upbeat town. I love its mixture of East and West, of double decker buses and sampans, of nerdy computer wizards and soulful soothsayers. However, I'm not here because I was born in the Year of the Monkey: I'm doing a reading and a workshop at Lingnan University in Tuen Mun.

Lingnan is far away from the sizzle of Kowloon. It's situated in The New Territories close to the border to China. This university is small and quaint with a landscaped garden, an Olympic size swimming pool, and a great collection of turtles.




2.
Tuesday I do a reading and book signing of The Tsar's Dwarf - the last event on My Pretentious World Tour.

So what's a show boat like me to do with his sorry life after this? Well, I guess I could write on my novel. Isn't that what novelists are suppose to do, anyway?

Come to think of it, I am writing on two novels, one in English and one in Danish, but then again what would you expect from a scatterbrain who's born in The Year of the Monkey?




3.
I've also been invited to Lingnan to do a writing workshop, so Friday I return from Hong Kong Island to teach a Master Class for 15 adorable students.

It takes place in a classy room with freezing air condition and good tuna sandwiches. The participants are from Hong Kong, Mainland China, Malaysia, and Nepal. Several students have actually traveled from Lignan's sister university in Southern China to sit by the feet of this moronic Master.

My Master Class (yes, I like using this word as often I can) is part of Lingnan's Life Writing program - an absolutely great invention where students write about their own life experiences. If you're a bore you could call it autobiography, but I like Life Writing much better.



4.
I read and critique five stories, and some of them are very good. One student has written a moving tale about how a small gesture of trust from a stranger in Wales changed her life. Another story is a wonderful character study about a late uncle on the Mainland who was accused of counter-revolutionary tendencies, even though he was a mere loner.

But what impressed me the most were the students themselves. After an hour I wanted to put them all in my suitcase, so I could bring them with me to Denmark. They were wonderful, and so were the professors at Lingnan.

"We want you back," says chairman Richard Freadman. And who am I to argue with an Australian chairman? Or with fellow Dane Mette Hjort, chairman of Visual Arts, who invited me here and who knows more about Danish films than any quiz contestant?

Before I leave campus I go back to the turtle pond and kiss my new friends goodbye. "I wouldn't dream of making soup out of you," I whisper lovingly and return by train to crowded Kowloon.

Hong Kong is one of many places on earth where I'd like to live. Why does happiness always screw you up?



Next blog: Varanasi, the holiest city in India where I'll be doing research on my next novel that takes place in India and Denmark.


****

How To Get Thrown Out Of A Country Club in Hong Kong

1.
I love Hong Kong. It's one of my favorite cities in the world along with Venice, Perugia, Sevilla, San Francisco, New York, and Molyvos in Greece.

My first two days I'm staying at Sai Kun in the New Territories, a far cry from the frantic city center with its tall buildings and hard working egos. Out here there are still sun sets and wild cows roaming the streets.

That's right, Sai Kun is known for its wild cows munching out on the grass in the roundabouts. These vicious animals are known to attack bus drivers and mosquitoes. They get in the way of the traffic, but contrary to the holy cows in India, these cows are not into meditation. These Chinese cows mean business. They will gang up on you and maim you before you have the chance to say dim sum.

2.
Am I making this up? Maybe a tiny bit. I'm introduced to these weird cows when my Chinese guide drives me through Sai Kun on the way to a posh country club at Clearwater Bay.

By the way, I'm not exactly country club material. I'm known to pick my nose in public, and luxury never impresses me too much. However, I'm a bit of a view freak, and Clearwater Bay Golf and Country Club has a view to die for. The bay is right underneath, full of greenish water, small windy islands, and lazy sampans.

But right now I'm just warming up to two events at Lingnan University with some country club fries in the 86 degrees weather, while I'm writing on my next novel. My only problem is a sign by the entrance that makes me vomit.




"Are you serious???" I ask the lady at the counter. "I brought my Filipino maid, my Indonesian butler, and my Norwegian slut, and you're telling me I can't bring them into the pool area?"

"So sorry, Sir," the Chinese lady says.

"But I promise you they won't drool."

"Not allowed, Sir."

"I could tie them to a post somewhere," I ask politely. "Norwegians are used to that."

A few minutes later it gets ugly. The Chinese lady calls her boss, and I'm carried out of the club foaming at the mouth. "I'm the owner of three yachts," I shout. "No, make that four yachts. Five. Siiiiiix..."

Ah, the problems of the rich ...




3.
Did this really happen, you want to ask?

Well, let me put it this way, I felt it happened, for thank God I'm only an underpaid novelist who has no business in a country club. Believe it or not, I don't even have people to write my books for me which just goes to show how out of place I am in Clearwater Bay ...

At night I learn that a new survey has come out. It claims that Hong Kong is the place on earth with the largest gab between rich and poor.


4.
The next day my Chinese guide takes me to the picturesque pier in Sai Kun with fish tanks full of Barracudas that you can munch on for lunch. Here I feel right at home being a bit of barracuda myself.

Tomorrow I'm going to Lingnan University to do my first Hong Kong reading on My Pretentious World Tour for The Tsar's Dwarf.

And hey, I'm planning to bring some of the wild cows with me, so I'm sure to have a sizable audience ...


********

Getting High School Kids Addicted To Scandinavian Literature

1.
I've found my mission in life.

I want to get high school kids addicted. Not to crack or pot. Not even to a healthy dose of French porn, but to something nice and wholesome - Scandinavian literature.

That's why I said yes to the kind invitation from Lincoln High School in Portland to do a presentation of The Tsar's Dwarf. Hell, I'm in the middle of My Pretentious World Tour anyway, so why not introduce these impressionable youngsters to my South Scandinavian filth?

Two classes were forced to sit through my lecture. And these 16 year old kids behaved much better than the kids you see on reality TV. No one was doing methadone, everybody was as polite as traffic cops, raising their eyebrows when I said fuck or Norway.

Since I'm the epitome of humility, I told my audience that there actually are other Danish writers in the world than me - not to talk about Swedish and Norwegian wordsmiths. We just don't get as much attention as the thriller writers unless we murder someone ourselves.

As any book seller knows, Swedish thriller writers have become the new Abba. Stieg Larsson is simply the most popular dead guy around. His The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo and The Girl Who Played With Fire are world wide hits. Henning Mankell, another Swede, is also selling millions of books. However, none of those gentlemen are among the best writers in Scandinavia.

2.
So, dear readers, why don't you put away those nice thrillers? Why don't you leave Dan Brown at Taco Bell and dive into the fabulous world of Scandinavian literary fiction? We may be from the countries of Lego, Ikea, and frostbite, but hey, we can write, too.

Here are a few books I'll recommend for you English speakers who have made the cruel discovery that there's a world out there of great translated literature:




Sweden:
The Royal Physician's Visit by Per Olov Enquist. You will be hard pressed to find many historical novels as good as this. It takes place in 18th century Denmark where a German doctor comes to Copenhagen and ends up ruling the country instead of the mad king. It's a beautiful love story, too. And a must read for any lover of historical fiction.

Popular Music From Vittula by Mikael Niemi. A funny and poetic coming-of-age novel that gives you a great insight into the Finnish minority in Northern Sweden. Presumably the most sold novel ever in Sweden.
I'll recommend this to any one who's ever had a childhood.

Hash by Torgny Lindgren. Two older gentlemen set out to taste all the local recipes for hash (a dish, not something you smoke) This doesn't sound as much perhaps, but Hash is another hilarious novel from our "boring" brothers across the sound. Yes, those delightful Swedes are often very funny.




Norway:
Before You Sleep by Linn Ullmann. Norwegian magical realism. A great read with an unreliable protagonist who is coming to terms with her family and her fast fading youth. Excellently translated by Tiina Nunnally who also did The Royal Physician's Visit and my own The Tsar's Dwarf.

Tales of Protection by Erik Fosnes Hansen. One of my all time favorite novels. Great storytelling, a masterpiece with four stories that take place during four different time periods and come together in strange ways. Visit Italy during the Renaissance, a small Swedish island in the 19th Century, and Norway and Africa in the 1900s. An unforgettable book that asks a simple question. Why do things happen the way they do? Is there a scientific pattern, a protective God, what?



Denmark:
The Quiet Girl by Peter Hoeg (Høeg to us Danes). Most reviewers hated this spiritual post modern masterpiece, probably because they didn't understand a word of it. Yes, it requires patience like all puzzles, but it's worth it if you appreciate its many philosophical and spiritual references. This is ground breaking stuff from a man who doesn't care if he loses the million of readers he gained for Smilla's Sense of Snow!

Doghead by Morten Ramsland. A grotesque Danish novel that was a huge hit back home. This one is a funny saga about a dysfunctional family in Norway - we seem to have a few of those in our neck of the woods, don't we? We follow these weirdos through three generations, and it's a great ride.

Nothing by Janne Teller. A dark young adult novel that is coming out in a few months (February 2010). You could call it The Lord of the Flies for the 21st century - the publisher does, anyway. Every age group can enjoy this modern fable that is way too beautiful to be depressing or nihilistic. Translation, Martin Aitken.



3.
So what happened to all the great Finnish novels, you may ask?

Well, first of all, I haven't read any.

Second of all, Finland isn't part of Scandinavia, contrary to what people think. The Finns don't share our language and they're better at holding their liquor. This is a huge compliment to Finland that is neighboring three countries that all qualify as happy vomiters.

However, Scandinavian or not, one day I will dive into Finnish literature. And I'll include Iceland, too, so I can pass as an academic instead of a novelist who takes pride in the fact that he writes much more than he reads.

Enjoy this Scandinavian smorgasbord, people!


Next blog: My Pretentious World Tour for The Tsar's Dwarf hits Hong Kong, China.

*****

Getting High on Oxygen at Wordstock Book Festival in Portland

1.
Yes, all writers are on drugs.

I'm into two things: Extra Strength Tylenol - and the Piña Colada scent at the Oxygen Bar in Wordstock's VIP room.

Man, did I get high. I put on one of those nasty plastic tubes that go over your ears. It has nozzles that fit into your nostril, so you look as if you've just survived a liver transplant. And then my head began to spin.

After the first hit I started to sing the Danish national anthem. After the second, I shared my selection of raunchy Christian spirituals. They had to carry me out on a stretcher while I shouted, "My name is Richard Dawkins, I'll sign your fucking books now."

This, of course, all took place in my mind, except for the fact that there was an Oxygen Bar in the writers' VIP room at Wordstock - a VIP room so crowded it reminded me of a Polish concentration camp. The coffee was cold, but the people who worked there were hot.


2.
When I arrived at the biggest book event in Oregon, I was met by an escort (no, unfortunately not that kind), then I was led in handcuffs to The Mountain Writers Stage to do my reading of The Tsar's Dwarf.

That was not a wise choice of venues. I'm from one of the flattest countries in the world, so after I started to talk I suffered from vertigo. Verbs fell off the page and crashed to an untimely death while I tried to concentrate on the great audience in front of me.

Apparently, I've gotten a reputation as an entertaining reader/performer which definitely is true when I'm not on oxygen. But it's hard to be a serious writer of lit. fiction when all you can think of is, "I gotta get back to the VIP room for some more oxygen."




3.
So how does an Oxygen Bar look, you may ask? Well, check out the picture above. Before my first hit I was a middle aged writer with dandruff, but after two rounds of fresh scented air I turned into a gorgeous platinum blond with a nose job.

So yes, Wordstock was great fun. I signed about 15 books, met readers who wanted me to do books on tape, talked for twenty seconds with Chelsea Cain, for nine seconds with Monica Drake, and for seven seconds with April Henry. Then I hung out at Hawthorne Books booth where I harassed people into buying more of my books.

"I'll sign anything, even the Old Testament," I shouted.

Wordstock is a wonderful event. You can listen to 186 writers who all say the same thing. You can buy expensive tacos, attend work shops about adverbs, and run into people like James Ellroy and Sherman Alexie.

But now you have to excuse me. I have to get back to that cool Oxygen Bar for the newest and most popular scent, the Swine Flu.


Yes, oxygen is a dangerous drug that shouldn't be used by kids and sensitive novelists. Photo by John Ochwat. The Oxygen Bar photo further up is from www.tripcrazed.com.

Next stop on My Pretentious World Tour for The Tsar's Dwarf is Lingnan University in Hong Kong, China.

An Interview about God, Obama, Kurt Vonnegut, Fender Benders, Writers' Block, and Other Literary Nightmares

This is an interview with me from Willamette Week by Aaron Mesh.

Willamette Week is Oregon's most read paper. I'm one of twenty writers who were quizzed about the things that matter and some that don't. Other "victims" were James Ellroy, Chelsea Cain, and Debra Gwartney.

All of us will appear this upcoming weekend at Wordstock, the biggest literary event in the Pacific Northwest. My reading is part of My Pretentious World Tour for The Tsar's Dwarf.





WILLAMETTE WEEK: Probably the only Portland State University professor to devote a novel to a Danish little person sold to Peter the Great, Fogtdal splits time between Oregon and Copenhagen. Wherever he is, he provides regular updates to a blog that considers such diverse subjects as post-religious Europe (“In Denmark God doesn’t even believe in God”) and the softcore movie Dagmar’s Hot Pants. He is a man of many interests, basically.

You can see him at Wordstock (Oregon Convention Center, Portland)): 3 pm Saturday, Oct. 10. at Mountain Writers Stage.

What’s your personal writing ritual, Peter?

I say a prayer and stare stupidly into a wall or preferably a great view. My favorite place to write, by the way, is in Italy. The language and the gelato do great things to my soul. I’m a nomad at heart, so every time I’m at home my muse tells me to get the hell out.

What are your favorite themes to write about (or that you’re most guilty of rehashing)?

Well, I almost always end up writing about spirituality, and often in a “blasphemous” way. I sincerely believe God has a better sense of humor than his followers. In most of my books I examine people’s struggle with the divine, but often in a lighthearted way. I see myself as a tragicomic writer. However, if you don’t have a dark sense of humor, you’re just going to find me tragic.

The most beautiful word in the English language is:

Fender bender.

What authors made you want to pick up a pen in the first place, and why?

You wouldn’t know him. He was Danish like me. His name was Leif Panduro, and he was a satirical writer who had a lot of depth. However, my favorite novel of all time is John Fowles’ The Magus. It’s a masterpiece of great storytelling and postmodern madness.

Fight Club time: If you could fight one author (or critic), who would it be and why?

I once had the runs at a writers’ residence in Costa Rica and picked up the only book in English I could find. It was Dan Brown’s Angels and Demons. After that, my stomach got worse.

Name a book you think is highly overrated. Be honest.

I love Kurt Vonnegut’s prose and sense of humor, but I can never get through any of his novels, except for Slaughterhouse 5, which truly is great!

Dream project:

The Tsar’s Dwarf is out in five languages as we speak. I would love that to be 55. And then I would want to tour all those countries while being adored by critics and cheerleaders.

Most recent nightmare:

I’m on at Wordstock at the exact same time Dostoevsky is signing his books at the stage next to mine.

Your cure for writer’s block:

I simply order myself to stay away from the computer for two weeks. It works like a charm because I love to rebel against anything, especially myself. “Don’t you tell me what to do,” my dark side shouts, and then I quickly return to the computer and write like a madman.

Pessimistic question: Will you keep writing even after people stop reading?

Of course. All true writers will. We always get depressed when we don’t have an audience, but how can that stop us from doing what we love?

Cautiously optimistic question: Obama? Discuss.

On a soul level, he is the best that the U.S. could hope for. For a politician, there is very little ego in the man, which pisses people off who have large egos themselves. But none of this means he’ll be a “great” president. He’s way too right-wing for a social democrat like me, but I trust him more than I’ve trusted any politician since Marcus Aurelius.

Share one thing you’ve had to change in your everyday life thanks to our current recession.

I buy less toilet paper.

Please paste a short paragraph from the blog you’re currently working on:

“Please don’t ever visit Acropolis in Athens when 3 cruise ships are in town and Mr. Mrs. Obesity are looking for a snack.”



You can read the paper's excellent January review of The Tsar's Dwarf here:


*****

Thanks, Obama, Oprah & the Olympics. Finally Copenhagen is the Center of the Universe (for a Nanosecond, Anyway)

Finally, it's official. Copenhagen is the Center of the Universe.

This time it's not because of some ridiculous cartoons. No one has beheaded The Little Mermaid, either. Hey, it's not even because of the upcoming Climate Conference.

No, Copenhagen is the center of the Universe because of the 2016 Olympic bid.

For the IOC meeting, Chicago has sent Oprah and Obama, Rio de Janeiro has sent Pelé, and Madrid is sending Franco. When you read this, everybody might know the winner, but seriously, who cares?

What's important is that Copenhagen is in the news - my gorgeous, expensive Copenhagen; a city so windy that even Chicagoans complain about the weather.

But Copenhagen is still God's gift to any trendy, bike-riding hippie with a lust for historical castles and designer porn, so here are

THE TEN REASONS YOU ABSOLUTELY HAVE TO LOVE COPENHAGEN



1) In Copenhagen you find more bike paths than anywhere else on the planet.

2) In Copenhagen everybody is as blond and handsome as in any hair wax commercial.

3) In Copenhagen no one is impressed with celebrities, unless they tell us they love Copenhagen.

4) In Copenhagen you can breast feed your baby without getting arrested.

5) In Copenhagen everybody loves the Queen, even though she's a chain smoker.

6) In Copenhagen we're more self-satisfied than the Norwegians.

7) In Copenhagen our baby carriages are larger than our houses.

8) In Copenhagen we have fewer Starbucks than Plains, Georgia.

9) In Copenhagen we believe in climate change because we want to change our own climate.

10) In Copenhagen it makes news when you fire a gun, not when you discuss your clitoris.

***

So now you know why we're so happy.

But hey, Obama and Oprah, please come back to Copenhagen for the Climate Conference, unless you think that throwing a javelin is more important than the environment?



Please check out my award winning blog, DENMARK FOR DUMMIES: A Superficial Introduction to the Happiest Country in the World

**************************

My Pretentious World Tour: Mais Oui, Montreal, Quebec

Sunday, September 20
My Pretentious World Tour got off to a good start with a memorable reading at the Athens Book Fair and some Etruscan writing in a small Italian town, Sutri.

Now I find myself on Air Canada's monkey class on my way to Festival International de la Littérature in Montreal. We're four foreign writers who have been invited to this French speaking event, Roberto Pazzi from Italy, Najat El Hachmi from Spain and Marocco, and Jakob Arjourni from Germany.

I arrive in Montreal on a beautiful Sunday. In the airport I'm picked up by the Danish Honorary Consul, a nice man who doesn't speak a word of Danish.

"How can you be consul of Denmark if you don't speak the language?" I ask rudely.

The nice man shrugs his shoulders and drives me along the bay, so I get a sense of the beautiful surroundings.

"What's the capital of Denmark?" I quiz him aggressively.

"Je ne sais pas," the Honorary Consul says and invites me to a delightful lunch with his wife. She doesn't speak Danish either but at least she's heard of Copenhagen.

Actually, I'm not being fair. Seven years ago the sweet couple was in Denmark for a big party for the Danish Honorary Consuls from around the world. They deserve it because they work for free. But hey, they do get complimentary business cards and herring for lunch, so what more can they ask?





Monday, September 21
The Goethe-Institut in Montreal is co-sponsor of the festival, so two delightful women invite me for lunch at a nice Italian restaurant. One of them, Lise Rebout is from Nancy, France - Hanna Zehschnetzler is a trainee from Bonn, Germany.

They don't hand me the key to the city, but a key to the public Bixi bikes in town, so I can ride around making a fool of myself.

Montreal is great. For instance, Starbucks isn't called Starbucks. It's called Café Starbucks which just goes to show how sophisticated they are in Quebec. I also like the fact that the homeless say "bon jour" instead of "how are you, Fuckface?"



Monday, September 21, evening.
I connect extremely well with one of my colleagues, Roberto Pazzi from Italy. Not just because I speak Italian, but because we're both writers of historical fiction and inspired by spirituality and astrology in our work.

Roberto's books are out in 26 languages (lucky bastard). His novel Conclave has been sold to 18 countries and sounds like a wonderful read. Luckily, I'm not the jealous type (?), so we hang out a lot talking about Proust, the Baroque period, and our killer Plutos. We both claim we communicate with the dead, but a historical novelist has to, since the people who lived back then are ... dead.

There is absolutely no way a writer can write about a historical figure without that person trying to influence you. The fact that he or she doesn't have a body has nothing to do with it.




Tuesday, September 22
At 7 pm I'm being interviewed by Jean Fugère from Radio-Canada.

The event is called "Une heure avec Peter H. Fogtdal" and it takes place in the huge auditorium at Grande Bibliotèque downtown. I would lie to you if I said it was full, but since I am a liar, the auditorium was full.

Jean Fugère interviews me about La Naine du Tsar (The Tsar's Dwarf) and luckily his questions are great.

Towards the end he says, "I've been doing this for 20 years, but your novel is the first Danish book I ever read. In Canada the only Scandinavian books we know are Swedish and Norwegian thrillers."

I sigh. There is nothing wrong with thrillers, but couldn't people start to show interest in our Danish mass murderers? Hey, we're good at rape and mayhem as well, dammit!

After the event I talk to a few readers who ask me if there are a lot of trolls in Danish literature ...





Wednesday, September 23
Montreal is gorgeous and trendy.

I ride around on my Bixi bike in the old part of town. I hang out in the Portuguese ghetto around Duluth, I enjoy the cafes at Saint Denise and downtown. People here are friendly but not obsessively so like in the Pacific Northwest where everybody is smiling to the point of insanity.

And hey, the Quebec French like their cigarettes. They'll be happy to blow smoke in your face any time any place. But you end up forgiving them because Montreal is a vibrant city of bistros, beautiful houses, seedy strip clubs, and oui, c'est vrais Café Starbucks ...





Thursday, September 23
My second event in Montreal is at Atwater Public Library and this time I'm allowed to do my show without a translator. My reading is part of a lunch series that attract a lot of Danes from the Scandinavian ghetto in town. It's great fun to meet them and I run out of books to sign, so I start on Stieg Larssons. Those dead Swedes need all the help they can get.

Roberto Pazzi and the wonderful Spanish writer of Moroccan descent Najat El Hachmi are kind enough to join me for my reading. Najat is a known essayist in Catalonia and her first book won an important prize in Barcelona.





In the evening Roberto Pazzi and I hang out again. The only bad thing I can say about the man is that he doesn't like soccer.

At one point he watches me carefully and pays me a wonderful compliment: "Peter, you have two faces. One of them is a ragazzino (a young boy), the other one is a wise old man, and they change all the time."

As the readers of Danish Accent know, it's definitely the boy who maintains this blog ...



My two colleagues Najat El Hachmi and Roberto Pazzi with Hanna and Lise from Goethe Institut, co-sponsor of Festival International de la Littérature.
Thanks to Hanna Zehschnetzler for the two photos from the readings.

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Acropolis and Rome: Been There, Done That. Now Back to the Cruise Ship for Some More Fatty Food

Sunday, September 13
When you're in Athens you have to visit Acropolis.

You don't really have a choice. Acropolis is the most famous ruin in the world. It reeks of ancient history. You can almost picture Socrates, Plato, and Ari Onassis walk around with their iPods.

Yes, something is wrong with Acropolis, especially on a Sunday when four cruise ships are in town. No matter where you go Mr. and Mrs. Obesity are killing time before they go back to B-deck for some more chili burgers.

After five minutes I've had enough. The sun is beating down, and there's absolutely no shade, not even in Pallas Athena's armpits. But you do have the pleasure of rude Russians who demand you take pictures of their sulky daughter; of boisterous Belgians who miss Manneken Pis, and of dumb Danes who'll become mass murderers if they don't get out now.

"Move on," the prison guards yell when we stop to take pictures. And prison guards are the right word for these uniformed Greeks. Some of them should have worked at Auschwitz. Come to think of it, maybe they did. This is just a new incarnation of herding cattle around, inflicting pain on the people who have paid 12 Euros to get in and 52 Euros to get out.

In front of me a Spanish guide is sounding like a bazooka, two Frenchman are getting erections. I love Greece, but Acropolis is almost as bad as a turkey farm before Thanksgiving.


God, Sometimes I Wish I Was Born in Italy and Had a Daughter Named Francesca


Monday, September 14
My Pretentious World Tour for The Tsar's Dwarf is continuing on to Italy.

Unfortunately, none of my books have been published there, so I'm "only" going to write on my novel. One of my Danish unions, DPA has an apartment in a small Etruscan town where I'm staying for 6 days. It's free for members if we do the dishes.

Sutri is close to Viterbo. It's one of those places where you want to sit on the piazza for a year with a caffé Americano, La Gazzetta dello Sport, and a bad tramezzino.

I'm basically the only straniero in town, but I get a lot of attention because I speak the language. My Italian has become a little rusty, but I'm happy to say it's decent enough to order food, insult Juventus, and discuss the sex life of Berlusconi.



Thursday, September 16
God, I'm writing well. So would you if it rained for three days in a row.

At the local bar I talk to the barista about Zucchero and Enrico Ruggieri, my two favourite Italian singers, ma San Remo fa schifo we both agree.

I always get high speaking Italian. The language is like a drug to me. If only I could get my fix more often.




Saturday, September 19
On my last day in Italy I take the bus into Rome.

In the late nineties I lived for six months in Trastevere, the most beautiful part of the city, but now the place has become a boot camp for middle aged Danes in search of Campari.

I walk around in a daze enjoying Campo de' Fiori and my favorite hang out Bar Calisto. Everything is as great as I remember, but being in Rome is like re-visiting an old lover who is still gorgeous but has very bad breath.

Sunday, September 20
Today My Pretentious World Tour moves on to Montreal, Canada for three events at the Festival International de la littérature (FIL).

I'm a happy man with an aisle seat. Now it's time for some Canadian jet lag.




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