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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