The Twin Cities: Bologna and Portland?

1.

I'm in Heaven. For the first time in years I'm back in Italy, where I can manhandle Dante's beautiful language, where I can mispronounce the wonderful adverbs, where I can massacre the mischievous pronouns.

Bologna is red. Everybody in Italy knows that. It's red because of its roof tiles, it's red because of its politics, and it's red because of its laughter. I bolognesi are the comedians of Italy. They are warm, funny, and generous - generous because Bologna hasn't been destroyed by tourists the way Firenze has. The bolognesi don't hate us yet. They're even nice to the Germans - not a small task when you think how Germans dress.

I'm here for a few days with my pale beauty getting lost in the old Gothic city, enjoying a coffee at beautiful Piazza Maggiore, watching the joggers pulling their hamstrings in the beautiful sun set ... enjoying the stray dogs pissing on the historical monuments. Since we're in August, Bologna is half deserted but you never escape i motorini in Italy. They come at you from every corner with their big helmets, making the drivers look like travelling egg shells.

Bologna is number five on my list of great Italian cities. Number one is Venice, even though it's a museum with pigeons. Number two is Lucca, a beautiful city in Toscana where I've lived half a year. Number three is Perugia because I damn well want it to be. Number four is Napoli - I just adore getting mugged in beautiful surroundings, and number five is yes, Bologna. So congratulations, Bologna. I'm sure it means a lot to you that an obscure Danish writer rates you higher than Florence.

2.

By the way, Bologna ought to be important to Portland, Oregon. The two cities are sister cities and it's a marriage made in Heaven - a rainy Heaven. Both cities have God-awful climates, but they also have gentle populations who are in love with their bikes. You eat better in Bologna, though. And history seeps through every penne arrabbiata in this city that looks like no other on the Italian peninsula.

3.

There are quite a few differences between the two cities. In Portland no one has a body. Americans don't touch other people - it's actually illegal. They only seem comfortable with touching strangers if they punch them or audition for porn flicks. Italians, on the other hand, have bodies: screaming bodies, hairy bodies, bodies that crave attention. You see a lot of cleavage in this country - the Grand Canyon of the Madonna, as Dante might have put it (well, maybe not). The Italian men might not wear shorts but they are more than happy to show off their chest hair.

Italians are also more aggressive in traffic than the polite Portlanders. Actually, Italians love to drive their cars into you while they scream vaffanculo - that's why it's such a healthy people. No one is passive-aggressive - everybody is just plain aggressive.

4.

Back to Bologna.

Right now I'm in the university district browsing through books I wouldn't dream of buying, watching foreign students with their heads full of passato remoto. The area is a little sedated. It's August after all, and the rich Italians have escaped to the beach or the mountains. Bologna is one of the hottest places in Italy in the summer. And one of the coldest in the winter. I walk around, admiring the buildings, smiling at the nuns browsing through their La Gazzetta Dello Sport. (There's nothing like soccer players that can make a nun drool.) But when I want to use a computer at an Internet cafe, I run into trouble. A big sign says: "According to a new law concerning terrorist and pedophile activity, everybody needs to show their passport."

"But my passport is at the hotel," I complain. The clerk behind the counter shrugs. Dandruff is growing on his shoulder.

"I'm not a terrorist, I just have an accent," I beg, looking around the cafe to see whether any one is sending coded messages to their friends in Yemen. But everybody seems innocent. A girl is emailing her lover in Catania. An immigrant shouts at his sister in Ghana from a small sweaty booth.

I smile and hand the clerk my id from Portland State University claiming it's more valuable than any passport. He nods lazily and I drown myself in spam, emails, and gossip from Copenhagen. An hour later, I walk out into the red city, down crooked streets, admiring the palazzi, the street lamps, and the stray dogs that leave small droppings in artistic patterns. It starts to rain but Bologna is full of Gothic covered walkways that makes you feel like a monk wearing Bennetton.

5.

The Italian language has always been an upper to me. It's like a drug that makes my mouth water and my body come alive. Some people need red wine, I just need a dose of Italian adverbs and I can go on for hours. But God knows, my Italians has become rusty. So I think back on my glory days - back when Italian proverbs would roll out of my mouth like pearls - back when the locals lined up to hear my jokes while they laughed behind my back. Oh yes, those were the days ...

6.

It starts to rain. After all, Bologna is Portland's sister city, so I take my pale girlfriend by the hand and move south. To Arezzo, Perugia, Spello, Assisi, and the most overrated city in the world, Florence. We have a few Saints to meet up with. More about that later, amici, nemici, tutti.

These Danish Cannons Are Pointing At Sweden (Keep It That Way)

1.

These Danish cannons are pointing at Sweden.

Why wouldn't they when you're visiting Hamlet's castle in Elsinore? Our countries have fought for centuries. The Danes used to be the powerhouse of Scandinavia, but in the 17th century things went wrong. Our Kings were driven to drink and the Swedes were much superior on the battlefield. And look what happened: They gave the world Greta Garbo, Björn Borg, and Ikea. We came up with Brigitte Stallone, Thomas Bjørn, and butter cookies.

Yes, the past can be cruel, but since I don't want to bash my countrymen, let me point out that we used to rule England, Sweden, Norway, Northern Germany, Estonia, Lithuania, Iceland, and small parts of Ghana and India - two countries that are as Danish as they come.

Another fact I won't bore you with is that Denmark was the first country in the world to allow sex change operations. We also invented the nuclear bomb - a Danish invention, if I ever heard of one!

2.
Okay, let's get back to Elsinore and Hamlet's castle.

I'm visiting this tourist trap with my pale girlfriend who will remain nameless until she gets a tan. She has been here before. I invited her two years ago when she saw the most important sights: Tivoli, The Little Mermaid, my mother's grave. Now the time has come for Hamlet's castle which wasn't Hamlet's at all. But who cares? We like to create tourist traps for foreigners who get stuck in the rain.

The castle Kronborg is actually from the 16th century but burned down a few times. It's very picturesque but not as gorgeous as our other big castle, Frederiksborg. But what the hell? You can't beat the location. Kronborg has a gorgeous view of the car ferries and Swedes throwing up in the streets.

3.
My pale girlfriend enjoys Elsinore. It's a quaint little town - the kind of place where you expect Søren Kierkegaard to poke you in the eye with his umbrella. On a Sunday, however, it's quite sedated. All shops are closed, but the town is full of Italians and Americans on day trips from Copenhagen. They buy open faced sandwiches, munch on herring and aquavit, and enjoy the fairytale atmosphere. Some of them get lost in the crooked streets, never to be seen again, but that's the charm of travelling.

We return to the capital by train, while my girlfriend talks about her Danish experience.

"I love this country. I've never seen so many bikes in my life," she muses. She's also impressed by the huge baby carriages, and the artful toilets that never flush. "All Danes have great legs, " she says, "but why don't you have any poor people? I want to see the poor people."

"But we do have poor people," I say defensively. But where are the poor people when you need them? You just can't trust any one these days.

On the train, we pass through the richest part of Denmark. This area is called the Whiskey Belt. The houses reek of vintage wine, the lawns are well groomed, nobody says hi - it's not the kind of greeting Danes believe in.

My pale American looks out at the ocean and practices her South Scandinavian language skills. She knows forty words, most of them would make her popular in single bars.


4.
In the center of Copenhagen, we meet more Swedes.

You can recognize them by their hair cuts and their artful drooling. But to tell you the truth, I've always liked our Scandinavian brothers. After all, they gave us Ingmar Bergman and Ikea. What more can you ask of 9 million people?

A Portuguese Book Launch And A Reindeer Melting In The Sun

November, 2006

1.
Santa Claus looks out of place.

After all, he's strolling down a walking street in Lisbon in 75 degrees desperately looking for kids to fondle. He's probably a pedophile. He's definitely being treated like one. I mean, who needs Santa and Portuguese reindeers when the sun is shining and it's unseasonably warm?

I love Lisbon. I just walked into one of the biggest bookstores in the city. The first thing I saw was my novel A Anã do Czar (The Tsar's Dwarf) lying next to José Saramoga, the Nobel prize winner, and a new biography on Marie Antoinette. Now that's the kind of company I like to keep!

Like a total idiot I said to a lady browsing through my book: "I wrote that," pointing at my picture like a self absorbed madman. She looked at me with the kind of look you reserve for Danish novelists:

"Did you really?"

I walked away feeling like a total moron, but one minute later she came back with three other people who worked in the store. At first I thought they were going to kick me out, but they asked me to sign four more books and as the gentleman I am, I gave in to their unreasonable demand.

When I left the bookstore, I thought: Maybe these book people haven't met an author before?




2.
Saturday night was the official book launch at FNAC in Colombo, the biggest mall in Portugal. It's lying next to Benfica soccer stadium. I must admit I'd hoped that Rui Costa would drop by, or a few TV-stations, but we had to live with about fifty people which definitely was fine.

My publisher Cláudia Peixoto (a woman with exquisite taste in literature) welcomed everybody. Then one of Portugal's best writers Sérgio Luis de Carvalho compared my novel to David Lynch's Elephant Man (my book has the same theme, something I've never thought of).

Sérgio gave a glowing review of my novel; he's a wonderful man. I should know because I stayed with his family for two days overlooking the hills of Sintra and the neighbor's laundry: T-shirts, underwear, over sized bras that unfurled like flags. I took over his son's room, I stole his strawberry yogurt, I made bad jokes about Benfica. But his dog Boris was crazy about me. I've never tried to be raped by a Labrador before but it was actually a lot of fun.

After Sergio's talk, it was my turn. Since my Portuguese is kind of appalling (I know three words), I spoke in English (which, come to think of it, is quite appalling as well). Afterwards, a well known poet and radio host, José Fanha, read aloud from my book. Portuguese is such a beautiful language. Danish, on the other hand, sounds like you're vomiting.

I signed about 18 books and talked to a few people who had liked my first novel O Paraiso de Hitler (The Whipped Cream War) that came out in Portuguese last year. Just the thought that I actually have fans in Portugal fills me with a wonderful sense of happiness, not to say arrogance.

3.
Lisbon is a wet dream for anyone who enjoys a city full of hills, history, and hallucinations. There's something wonderfully old fashioned about this capital. People are courteous, the women are pretty, the port wine is cheap. And the city is full of street cars with huge Coca Cola ads. As I said, it's all very Portuguese.

I spend a lot of time in Alfama, a gorgeous part of the city. All houses are white as bedsheets. It has a feel of an Arab city. People greet you; you run into the odd goat. The locals don't seem as melancholic here as they do in the rest of Lisbon. The Portuguese are not your stereotypical Latins. They're not drama queens like the Italians or loud like the Spaniards - they suffer. Oh God, they suffer. Just listen to the music that comes out of them. Fado is like a love poem to a corpse. So if you're into blues, feel free to visit one of the fado restaurants in Barrio Alto. They're a total rip off. When I went, we ended up dancing on the tables as if we were in a bierstube in Gelsenkirchen.

4.
By the way, I've promised my publisher I'll learn Portuguese when one of my books reach the best seller list. That should happen by 2086.



5.

One other reason that my stay is so memorable is that I meet up with family - my mother's kid sister Hannah and her husband who are travelling around the world in a boat the size of a bathtub. The only problem is that Jan is bigger than the bathtub.

Hannah and Jan are people I truly admire. They both used to work in an insane asylum. Actually they met in the asylum - it was love at first psychosis. One day they looked at each other and said: "We're tired of working with crazies. We want to sail around the world." But instead of fantasizing about it, they went to work. First, they got hold of a wreck from 1933. Then they started to practice. They crossed a pond, then a lake, finally, a sound. They started to learn that there's a thing called a sail. And they got better at navigating - an advantage when you're crossing something as wet as an ocean.

And now, to make a long story short - we're meeting up in Lisbon. I show them Alfama. They are at my book reception, we enjoy each other's company. It's great. But isn't that the advantage of getting old? You actually enjoy your family instead of thinking that they are morons.

6.

Believe it or not, I have more family in Portugal.

My third cousin Annett lives in Cascais. She has been in Portugal for a decade as a big cheese in a huge hotel chain. Now she has come up in the world: She's a yoga teacher. And more important, she has become a blond.

"Is that you, Annett?" I ask.

Annett nods. It's her under the hair. We start a sight seeing tour of Cascais - the La Jolla of Portugal. Our first stop is a pharmacy, the next is an Indian restaurant. We also visit a Chinese thrift store. Cascais is truly international. Hey, they even have an English pub.

Annett has actually lived here when she was a kid. Her father was a pilot for Scandinavian Airlines - the kind of job that has two advantages: You see a lot of UFOs and you get to live in Cascais. Today the locals can be divided into two groups: the rich and the filthy rich. But please don't tell the locals that their Portuguese Saint Tropez was a fishing village thirty years ago. That might hurt their feelings.

7.

Back in Lisbon.

It's my last day. I've really grown to love this city that hasn't been destroyed by tourists. I eat espetada and shop around for a soccer shirt for my nephew. The sun is shining. All the vendors offer me cocaine or sun glasses - an odd combination, even for Portugal.

On my way out of an Internet cafe, I run into Santa Claus again. This time he has brought a snowman. The moment I pass him, fake snow falls from a balcony. For a short second it looks as if Santa is drowning in dandruff. Then he sees a cute kid and starts to chase him down the street ...

Summer Diary: Meltdown Danes (Have Mercy On Us)

1.

Early June 2007

Copenhagen is melting. For the first time in the history of mankind it's the warmest place in Europe. Warmer than Madrid, Rome, and Lisbon. More humid than Prague, St. Petersburg, and Portofino. 88 degrees, four days in a row. Offices close, middle aged men strip, senior citizens croak.

We're not used to this kind of weather. We're used to 63 degrees and rain. We're used to some one beheading The Little Mermaid, but not four days of Danish tropics. It must be global warming, it must be the Devil, it must be Al Gore. And this is a country without air condition. I mean, why would you want air con in a place where summers arrive Tuesday and leave Thursday?

I'm sitting in the shade in one of our gorgeous squares. Women on bikes torture me with their nipples, Labradors faint on the sidewalk, people bitch about sweaty armpits. I'm surrounded by tourists who look like thirsty ghosts. And when I walk into 7-11 to buy some white chocolate, I discover that the chocolate on the counter has melted. As I said, this is a country without air condition, even at 7-11!

2.

Mid June.

We're back to normal weather now. 59 degrees and rain. The houses shine like toe nails, people hide their hair cuts under blue umbrellas. Whatever happened to summer? The same people who bitched about the heat bitch about the rain. You just can't win when you're born in this country of faded fairy tales.

3.

More June

I've just turned in the first draft of my next novel, a fable. Luckily, my editor liked it. She hated my first draft. Actually, she didn't say anything. She just lit a match while I watched my dream turn into ashes. Then she handed me a book by Dan Brown and said, "You should read this guy, he can really write ..." Oh, those writers' nightmares, those writers' nightmares ...

4.

Actually, I've only had great editors. Editors are unbelievably important to a novelist. You need some one with a cool stare and a warm heart. You need a vampire that can suck the verbs out of you. That's what editing is all about: Raising the writer from the dead.

As a few of you know, my new Danish novel is coming out in the spring of 2008. It's going to be a combination of 1001 Nights, Hans Christian Andersen, and Reader's Digest for the spiritually challenged. It's about death and transformation and I hope it'll save the world. Or at least, I hope it'll save me.

In September 2008, I'll finally have a novel out in English. It's called The Tsar's Dwarf and will be published by Hawthorne Books - and translated by Tiina Nunnally. She's a damn good translator. She was the one who translated Peter Høeg's mega seller Smilla's Sense Of Snow. She has also translated another unknown Danish writer by the name of Hans Christian Andersen, so I'm in pretty good company.

5.

My country is falling apart.

Our Danish pride has been hurt. Am I talking about poverty, political disasters, or our pathetic involvement in the Iraqi war? No, I'm talking about something more important, sports. Our Tour de France winner from 1996 Bjarne Riis has admitted that he was doped when he won the race. But this is not the worst. Our national soccer team just "lost" to Sweden because a fan ran onto the field and tried to beat up the referee. And in July, Michael Rasmussen was thrown out of Tour de France for suspicion of doping.

What's wrong with my countrymen? Haven't we always been known for being civilized, non-violent, and as humane as hummingbirds? A bit sedated, maybe, somewhat comatose, yes - violent, no. But NOW we have fighting in the streets that make the news all over the world, we have a reputation for being racists, we insult the Islamic world with lackluster cartoons - AND we have a drunk fan who runs onto the field and try to throw up on the referee. Our only excuse? The drunk Danish fan actually lives in Sweden which just goes to show how deranged he is ...

6.

But God, back in the old days Danes didn't use to cheat. We just raped and conquered. We were happy vikings with healthy habits: We killed Brits, we burned down the Normandy, we beat up the Norwegians. Now we just dope ourselves like Barry Bonds.

Meltdown Danes, indeed!

Thank God, we still have Lego!