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. 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 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.

*******

My Pretentious World Tour: First Stop, Athens, Greece

Thursday, September 10, 2009:
Apart from looking into the eyes of my girlfriend when she's asleep, my favorite thing in the world is to be on book tour, especially My Pretentious World Tour for The Tsar's Dwarf.

Let's face it, I'm not a household name in any country, but still the world wants me. I'm going to Athens, Greece; Sutri, Italy; Montreal, Canada; Portland, Oregon, and Hongkong, China. And on my way back, I'll stop in Varanasi (Benares) and Mumbai, India to do some research on the novel I'm writing. All this is covered by wonderful grants from the Danish Art Council, CopyDan, and DPA, The Danish Songwriters' Guild.

I'm a lucky man. And right now this lucky man can't sleep. He lies in bed, his silly head full of silly ideas while the world of literature is waiting to devour him.




Friday, September 11:

What's wrong with the climate? I'm leaving a gorgeously sunny Copenhagen for a rainy, dreary Athens. Are the Greek gods on drugs? Actually, the atrocious weather is appropriate since this year's Athen's Book Festival has a theme, Greening the Future. So now The Danish climate has moved to Greece and the Greek climate has moved to Denmark - that is kind of scary.

I'm met in the airport by the Danish ambassador's Greek driver. The man turns out to be an entertaining cynic. He tells me at great length about the politics of his country, how the Greeks are fooled by corrupt politicians, how he was born in Australia where there isn't much to see, how Denmark should get its act together and clean up Copenhagen. It's an enlightening monologue from a smart man who seems disillusioned with the ways of the world.

As I said, I'm only disillusioned with the weather. "When it rains in Athens, the whole city comes to a stop," Panagiota Goula, the Greek cultural attache at the Danish embassy tells me. "Then everybody in Athens gets into their cars and traffic breaks down."

Later she shows me several Athens newspapers that mention my name. But if someone gave me a million dollars and a little of that excellent taramosalata, I still wouldn't be able to decipher where my name was on the page.




Saturday, September 12

I'm invited to a liquid lunch with the Danish ambassador, my colleague Iris Garnov; Leo, my translator, and four local poets - one of them turns out to be the Greek ex-ambassador to Sudan. Talking about multitasking!

The ambassador's apartment has a gorgeous view of Acropolis and the rest of Athens. "Can I be the next ambassador here?" I ask the nice man whose name is Tom Norring. "No," he says flatly and I leave the apartment totally devastated.

Luckily, I recover for tonight's performance. About thirty people show up at The Danish Institute in Plaka where a Greek actor Konstantinos Konstantopoulos reads excerpts from The Tsar's Dwarf and my latest Danish novel Skorpionens hale.

Even though I don't understand a word of the Greek translations, it's obvious that Konstantinos Konstantopoulos is doing a fantastic job. I'm totally spellbound by his voice. He never looks up when he reads but he totally stays in the world I've created. Two fine Greek musicians add flavor to the night, and I'm moved to tears by the whole event.

My only regret is that Zeus and Pallas Athena didn't show up. Where are the Greek gods when you really need them?

By the way, tomorrow I'm going to Acropolis. I believe it's some kind of semi-famous ruin they put on all of their postcards ...

Iris Garnov, Danish poet, Georgis Georgiadis, musician; yours truly; the Greek actor Konstantinos Konstantopoulos, and Dimitris Theocharis, musician. What a memorable evening. (Sorry about the shirt though. I don't look good in yellow)

***

Dammit, I Missed The Naked Bike Ride in Portland (Sweaty Balls and All)

I'm still disappointed I didn't make it to The Naked Bike Ride Saturday night in Portland. All those bloated bellies and saggy balls flapping in the wind.

My Pale Girlfriend and I wanted to go, but as everybody knows it's hard work getting naked. First you have to take off your clothes, then you have to make sure that your genitals are behaving.

But if God has blessed you with a great body, you have a responsibility to flaunt it. I don't mean to brag but I'm a 53 year old with a body of a 52 year old.  I belonged in that race, and I wasn't going to wear a sissy helmet or a g-string like all the Germans I know.

The ride is part of The World Naked Bike Ride, an annual occurrence in Portland, San Francisco, and several degenerate cities in Europe. I've heard they even have one at Guatanamo bay. This year thousands of Portlanders biked through downtown to prove that riding naked is the thing to do when it's 56 degrees and your nipples are as hard as kidney stones.

But as I said we never made it. My Pale Girlfriend and I had just stripped naked when we found a mouse in the house. The mouse raced through the apartment and hid under the sofa. I tried to get it out with a broom. When that didn't work I went New Age on the rodent. "I see God in you, so get the fuck out of there before I call Rent-a-Cat."

And it's true. I don't want to kill any animal on earth; it's only people I feel like terminating. God, we did everything in our power to get rid of the mouse. First, we put on a noisy fan, then we ran around screaming like maniacs.

"No, we have to do something nastier than that," I said to my girlfriend and played some Country  music, but the mouse still stayed put. Later we found out that it had built a nest under one of the cushions. It was quite comfortable there. The mouse munched on our goat cheese and my liver pate - it even enjoyed watching Judge Judy.

So My Pale Girlfriend and I missed The Naked Bike Ride. And I wanted to go so badly - not to show off my ten inches (I have a long collarbone), but to teach people how vulnerable cyclists are in traffic. You see, The Naked Bike Ride in Portland is not about testicles.  It's an homage to naked cyclists who are killed every day - by truck drivers wearing too much clothes.

So it's high times that we take action. And Saturday millions of cyclists made the kind of political statement that can bring world leaders to their knees - at least if we hand them a pair of binoculars.


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

Is Christopher Hitchens a Messenger From God?

I just read God Is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything by Christopher Hitchens.

Since I'm a believer I didn't expect to like this onslaught on religion, but I actually loved the book. It's well written, funny, provocative, and humanistic to the bone. Christopher Hitchens shows that atheists often are more "religious" (moral) than believers - and more tolerant than the people who claim they've found the "Truth". Hey, at least atheist don't condemn others to Hell, they don't cut off your clitoris (at least, not for religious reasons), and they're happy to put their teeth into a good pork chop, right?

However, make no mistake about it, Hitchens is as dogmatic himself as the religions he criticizes. His absolute "Truth" is that religion poisons everything. He also seems to overlook that the world is full of people who carry their God within. They shouldn't be blamed for the mess the religions have made. It's not every Christian who uses the Bible as a baseball bat. And it's not all Muslims, Jews, Buddhists or Hindus who want to show others the "right" way. A lot of believers just live their values - their faith gives them inner strength and make them better people. So the problem is not God at all, it's organized religion.

However, Christopher Hitchen's book is an extremely important work. And it's definitely much more honest than Bill Maher's mockumentary Religulous that used all believers as a punching bag for his wit.

But the world does need to be reminded how much damage religions still do today - how most wars are caused by people who think their "Truth" is superior. So no, God Is Not Great ain't a work of the Devil. It's more likely a work of God.

Yes, I see it now: While Christopher Hitchens was sitting in his study, God descended on him, angels whispered in his ears, saints led his pen. Who knows, maybe God even supplied Hitchens with his Scotch to calm him down (and with cigarettes to soothe his nerves) because they knew that the world of faith needed a provocative slap in the face.

So without realizing it, Christopher Hitchens, the rationalist, has written a spiritual manifest. It's not only a Bible for people of the Atheist faith, it's also a work for the millions of believers who are suspicious of organized religion.

Most often God and religion have very little to do with each other. It's this point that the angry, but brilliant Christopher Hitchens doesn't seem to get.

******

A Joyous Countdown for Literary Droolers (PEN's World Voices 2009)

A bit of nostalgia: World Voices 2008. Nuruddin Farah from Somalia, Fatou Diome from Senegal, and silly old me. I know Nuruddin Farah from Ledig House where we both had writing grants in 2002.


1.
I love World Voices literary festival.

So would you if you were in New York at last year's event. I saw Rick Moody interview Israel's Edgar Keret, I was a witness to Chenjerai Hove's fist fight with Nuruddin Farah. (They were discussing tribal wars; I'm sure they're still cleaning up the blood). And I was at Housing Work Book Store where they offered free condoms to the audience. That's right. You could pick up a condom on the way out.

"What a great idea," I thought. "Everybody knows that bad literature is contagious. We simply have to protect ourselves against the STD of airport reading." But at the same time, the free condoms didn't make much sense because World Voices only does good literature. The festival is a class act. I should know because they haven't invited me.

Yes, dear friends, let me be brutally honest. I had hoped that I would have been a guest this year. As my blogreaders know, my translated novel, The Tsar's Dwarf came out last fall and has done well. But no such luck.

However, I want you to know that I've taken this humiliation as a man. I only cried for three days when I found out. And I've been heavily medicated ever since. Right now I'm on Valium and several herbal teas that make me fart, but my therapist has encouraged me to go to New York any way.

"Peter, it's not personal," he insisted, "it doesn't necessarily mean that PEN hates you or your pathetic novels."

"Are you sure?" I said trying to log into my PEN account without success. Danes Not Allowed, it kept on saying.

So here I am, a South Scandinavian novelist with a chip on his shoulder. However, I've received a beautiful consolation prize. I've become an official PEN blogger. Yes, you heard me. What more does any writer want from life? It's almost as good as receiving the Pulitzer prize or that Swedish literary award that snobs rave about. What's it called again? The Nobel prize ...?

So I'm deeply honored and I promise I'll be fair to those writers who are part of the festival. After all, it's not their fault that they were invited. My therapist and the medication have made me see that now.

2.
New York in April is surprisingly hot, a melting pot of stressed out business men, hardcore joggers, and nuns with iPods. Not all of them have plans of going to World Voices; most are probably heading for Wall Street, Central Park or God. However, we're still many with sound priorities. We want literature and we know where to get it.

I have a list of events I've promised American PEN to cover. And I'm looking forward to them all. I'm going to listen to Stories of Change with Salman Rushdie and Zimbabwe hot shot, Petina Gappah. I'll enjoy a Literary Film Feast at Instituto Cervantes and Evolution/Revolution with Nicole Brossard, Narcís Comadira. And hey, I'll be happy to know more about Trends in Spanish Language Literature (I wonder if Lou Dobbs is going to show up?) and much more.

So please stay tuned because World Voices is a smorgasbord of international literature, it's a celebration of writers dappertutto. This year's festival should make any wordsmith drool. So here I am, a notorious drooler, celebrating PEN and the written word.


PS.
If you're interested in my silly report from last year, read PEN World Voices (Now With Condoms)


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

God, I'm So in Love with Judge Judy. She's my Favorite Nazi.

 1.
I'm in love.

Please don't tell my girlfriend. She'll be devastated when she finds out, but I can't keep it to myself any longer: I'm madly in love with Judge Judy, and I want to be the stepfather of her kids.

For those of you who aren't blessed with American TV, Judge Judy is a real judge who has a reality show on CBS where she settles cases in a small claims court. And she does so with gusto, wit, and the kind of sadism that works like a charm on TV.

By the way, Judge Judy is not a babe. She's more like your Latin teacher from Hell. But make no mistake, Judy Sheindlin is God's gift to American reality shows. She is tough, funny, and fair. She'll abuse you whether you're innocent, retarded or left handed. Her intuition is uncanny - Judge Judy knows you're a loser, even before your step into her court. And she's happy to humiliate you in front of ten million viewers.

The dark part in me absolutely loves the show. There's nothing like watching common people being torn to pieces. Judge Judy is court porn at its best; she has turned condescension into an art form. Judy Sheindlin passes judgment on everybody - just like God. The only difference is that she looks so much better in a black robe.

What I admire most is how Judge Judy rules the court with an iron fist. She's happy to tell people that they're bums, free loaders, and sociopaths with dandruff. And she has every right to because her ratings are high!

A clairvoyant friend told me that during Judy's last incarnation she worked in a concentration camp for the SS - and now she has come back to finish the job. But of course that's not true. Judy is a wonderful mother, a stout Republican, and a gracious tipper. Her values are all-American. I bet she believes in God as long as He shuts up when she speaks.

Well, I for one believe in Judge Judy. She's a part of me ... not a part that I like, but a part nevertheless.

But now, you have to excuse me, I have to jet. In a few minutes another re-run of Judge Judy is coming on - the one where two choir boys are suing a priest for spanking them with his Bible belt. I bet Judge Judy is going to have a field day with that one!

******
The wonderful cartoon is by Læmeur.

In Monaco Even The Seagulls Are Wearing Prada.

1.
Monaco is a beautiful pimple on the ass of France.

It's lying on the Cote d'Azur squeezed in between Nice and Italy. If you don't know any geography, Monaco is one of the smallest countries in the world. Basically, it's the size of a shopping mall. Come to think of it, Monaco is a shopping mall.

So what am I doing here in this posh Paradise? Well, I'm visiting people close to my heart who moved to this tax-free Heaven a few years back. Monaco is known for its Monte Carlo casino - and for those spectacular suicides people commit after losing at the roulette. In the old days, people shot themselves in the park outside the casino, but that's not fashionable any more. And Monaco is all about fashion. In Monte Carlo even the seagulls are wearing Prada. And no one is caught dead in shorts from WallMart.

Yes, you guessed it. I'm totally out of place. I've always been the loser of my family, preferring Italy from France, but actually you hear a lot of Italians in Monaco. Bella Italia is only ten miles away, so the snobs from Liguria love to hang out with the rich and the famous. This Principality is the kind of place where you run into your favorite arms dealer at the bakery. And when you walk down the street, you rub shoulders with ex-models looking for a face lift. But the celebrities have left. Twenty years ago this was the home of Bjorn Borg and Ringo Starr, but now they're probably banging their drums in different luxury resorts.

Perhaps it all went downhill after Grace Kelly died. When the Hollywood star married Prince Rainier, she made Monaco famous all over the world. Now it's her son, Prince Albert who is the benign ruler of this picturesque police state. In Monaco everybody is monitored 24/7. You have so many cameras that Monte Carlo would make any dictator drool. The common criminals don't stand a chance in this lecherous Legoland. Neither do non-whites.

Actually, it wouldn't be fair to call the local police racist. They're just suspicious of everybody who isn't the proud owner of fourteen credit cards - and of people with knapsacks. If you're carrying a knapsack, you're either a terrorist or a backpacker - and the police probably prefers the former.




2.
The greatest thing about Monaco is the mountains and the sea. The Principality looks like a stupendous postcard - the kind of place where you want to marry some one or get a spectacular divorce. Another endearing quality is that Monaco has the same climate as Santa Barbara, California. It's only "cold" one or two months a year. And hey, you can't beat all those palm trees and cacti.

Still, it's not a favorite hang out of mine. There are too many tall buildings and too many short people, but somehow Monaco appeals to my sense of humor. I always picture Americans getting heart attacks when they see the size of the elevators. In Monaco people aren't obese. How could they be? Monte Carlo is all about appearance and bella figura.

When I leave the Principality to go to Spain, I admire Monaco from the distance. That's where Monaco looks the greatest: from the train, the highway, from France. But in a twisted way, I'm fascinated with this playground. After all, Monaco is one of those places where a kid will sue his parents if they don't give him a Ferrari for Christmas.

Please Don't Be Cruel to Robert Mugabe. He Is Such a Sensitive Dictator.

 Christopher Mlalazi is one of many writers who had to escape Zimbabwe during the last decade.


1.
Please don't be cruel to Robert Mugabe.

Robert Mugabe is such a sensitive dictator. And as we all know, sensitive dictators don't have any sense of humor. They are too busy torturing poets and worrying about their stool.

So have a heart, have a little compassion for this ageing dictator.

To tell you the truth, I feel sorry for Robert Mugabe. I wouldn't want to swap lives with that man. Too many power hungry spirits are building nests in his short hairs.

And most of all, too many vicious people are making fun of their leader.


2.
Let me mention some of those people: Raisedon Baya, Christopher Mlalazi, Aleck Zulu, Lionel Nkusi. These scoundrels had the audacity of writing and producing a play called The Crocodile of Zambezi. It premiered May 29, 2008; the writers and actors had worked on it for two years.

The play took place in a fictional country, depicting a weak 94 year old dictator in the middle of a crisis.

Robert Mugabe in crisis?

Don't these artists understand that Robert Mugabe was appointed by God? Does God have a crisis? Of course not. God takes care of business as He sees fit. God is in perfect control. That's why He is so loved by His people.

By the way, Robert Mugabe didn't like the play. Actually, He never saw it. Dictators don't have time for the arts. Well, maybe they listen to Wagner or watch the odd rerun of the Sopranos, but satire, no, that's not their kind of thing.

So Robert Mugabe send some of his boys from the secret police. They rounded up the actor Aleck Zulu and the production manager Lionel Nkosi and gave them a ride in their car. They tortured them and put a gun in their mouths. Maybe they broke a few limbs as well because you shouldn't insult the man who has given so much to his subjects .... sorry, co-patriots.

The play, by the way, was closed down after one performance.

That's totally understandable, because who in their right mind would want to see a play making fun of the Supreme Savior of Zimbabwe? Instead these artists should lavish Mugabe with praise. They should write pompous poems to glorify His strength, they should construct endless bridges in His name, they should create religious cults instead of telling lies about this incarnation of Light.

As I said, Robert Mugabe is a sensitive dictator. And maybe He sleeps a little better after the play closed down.

After all, it's hard to sleep when people laugh at you.


3.
Maybe that's why PEN should change its policy.

You see, I'm a member of the Danish chamber of PEN, an international organization of writers, poets, and novelists who fight for The Freedom to Write.

But perhaps PEN got it all wrong. Instead of fighting for The Freedom to Write, we should have more compassion for Mugabe. We should fight for The Freedom to Torture.

So I propose a new program that supports dictators' God-given right to educate their people. We should print Freedom to Torture t-shirts, arrange expensive conventions at Sheraton, and invite leaders from Belarus and Brunei.

I mean, why become a dictator if you can't torture the people you want? Isn't that part of the job description? Even George Bush had fun at Guantanamo Bay, so why can't Robert Mugabe?

So have a little compassion, have a little heart.

Support Robert Mugabe's Freedom to Torture. The poor man had a difficult childhood, anyway.



*****

This blog entry is dedicated to the brave people of Zimbabwe who have the courage to laugh, especially Raisedon Baya, Christopher Mlalazi, Aleck Zulu, Lionel Nkusi, Petina Gappah, and many, many more.

*****

Scandinavia House, New York: The Nostalgic End to a Beautiful Book Tour

1.
I'm sad, almost heartbroken.

My US book tour is over. What am I going to do with my pathetic life now? It's been such a joy traveling with The Tsar's Dwarf. I've had wonderful crowds, people have been supportive and enthusiastic. Everybody from Oregon to Illinois has laughed behind my back, and they've bought a lot of books - but now it's all over. Now I have to go back home and do my laundry like everybody else.

God, reality is so overrated. Maybe we should do away with it?

My last stop was Scandinavia House on Park Avenue in New York. Scandinavia House is the mecca for Scandinavian con artists coming to the US. It's owned by the governments of Denmark, Norway, Sweden, Iceland, and Finland. It's a stylish place in stylish concrete. Actually, it used to be the East German embassy, but when DDR ceased to exist, the Scandinavian countries bought it.

"Are there still hidden microphones in the ashtrays like in the good old days?" I ask my host.

Kyle shakes his head. He doesn't think so, but then again, what does he know? Well, maybe more than he wants to admit. Kyle's name is Reinhart, that sounds pretty East German to me.

I decide to pull down the shades and interrogate the man. "Who're you working for, anyway?" I demand to know. Kyle laughs. He is actually from Minnesota and has lived in Kulhuse in Denmark. If you've never heard of Kulhuse don't feel too bad; no one else has.





2.
I'm extremely proud to do a reading at Scandinavia House, even if it's in the Volvo Hall. A nice crowd shows up - a nice crowd for a literary reading, that is. Only Henning Mankell, the crime writer, can pull them in. People adore those Swedes when they go on their killing sprees.

After my presentation I sign my novel and talk to the nice folks. The crowd is a mixture of Americans, Danes, and a few Slovaks who dropped by because of the booze. After ten minutes we run out of books which is a shame, but to tell you the truth, it's also á great feeling. I mean, if you can run out of books in New York, you can run out of books anywhere!




3.
Luckily, I'm continuing my tour next year, going to California in February and Hongkong in October. And probably Texas as well. Then throw in some presentations in Portland, Oregon where I live and Strasbourg in a month's time to talk about La Naine du tsar, the French edition of the book.

But right now I want to thank my wonderful American readers. About 700 showed up. A few were forced by gunpoint (I talked at three universities and one high school), but none of you feel asleep as far as I know. Well, that's not totally true. A lady in Milwaukee went into heavy "meditation" during my reading. And a great deal of the audience in Chicago was delightfully drunk.

But I failed to meet a single asshole on my tour. They probably went to the other 555 readings that competed with mine. My readers, on the other hand, are warm, intelligent, and fond of showboats. Who could ask for more?

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

Seattle, Washington: The Second Stop On My American Tour

1.
I'm in Seattle, Washington on my book tour.

I've been here several times before. The Seattle area is absolutely gorgeous. It looks a lot like Sweden and Norway and I love Sweden and Norway, even though you're not supposed to admit that when you're Danish.

I've done several lectures before at University of Washington and those semi-Scandinavians keep on inviting me back. I don't mind at all. I'm totally in love with the UW campus. It looks like a wet dream for any sophomore and God knows I'm a sophomore at heart.

At UW I'm presenting The Tsar's Dwarf in a class called Masterpieces in Scandinavian Literature. The poor students are forced to read Hans Christian Andersen, Søren Kierkegaard, and Peter H. Fogtdal. But I'm the only one who has been invited. Hey, I might not be the best Scandinavian writer around but at least I'm not dead.




2.
Yesterday I did a presentation of The Tsar's Dwarf at Elliott Bay Book Company, a wonderful independent book store in downtown Seattle. A lot of construction was going on outside, so traffic was a mess. The sun was shining, too - a rare occurrence in the state of Washington.

I would lie if I told you there were a lot of people there: I counted three friends from UW, an American couple who told me they had a thing for midgets, some nice Danes from Microsoft, a Norwegian from Wisconsin with a name I couldn't spell, and a few other people who escaped before I could force them to buy my book.

But what a great book store. Elliott Bay Book Company is the kind of place where you could get lost for days. And the great people at Elliott named The Tsar's Dwarf Book of the Week, so I'm not complaining about anything!




3.
A few quotes from the two reviews in Seattle I'm aware of:

Seattle Times:: "This is the first novel to appear in English by Peter H. Fogtdal, a Danish writer who splits his time between Copenhagen and Portland. It shouldn't be his last; the guy has talent — especially in his rendering of his narrator's biting, contrarian, misanthropic voice ...

With an obvious fondness for the negative twists in his narrator's character, Fogtdal suggests how a vigorous, questioning, nihilistic mind can be a source of strength for a social pariah. And through Sørine he casts a steady eye on the more general whys and hows of existence. "Which," she asks, "is worse: when life stands still, or when it's pulled out from under you like a rug?" - Michael Upchurch.

Book of the Week review from Elliott Bay Book Co.: "Fogtdal's story is grotesque and sometimes brutal, but so richly imagined that it is captivating from the start. It is the story of Sorine, a Danish dwarf and self-described "curiosity cabinet" who is taken from the disease-ridden basement in which she lives to Tsar Peter the Great's court in Russia.

Here the lines are blurred between Sorine's world of filth and the comparative lavishness of the nobles, who treat dwarves both as "poppets," to be coddled and dressed up, and as brutish animals. Part historical fiction, part nightmare, The Tsar's Dwarf is a heart-wrenching tale of humanity." -M. Woolbright

Thank you, Seattle! I like you, too.




4.
Last night I also did a reading at the Nordic Museum. It's an interesting place with a souvenir shop where you can get a year´s supply of Norwegian flags, Swedish napkins, and Danish toilet paper. The Nordic Museum also offer courses in Scandinavian weaving and how to throw herring after people you despise. (Well, almost)

"Why didn't the Scandinavian countries ever unite?" a gentleman asked me after my reading. "Your countries are totally the same."

People looked angrily at the man who needed police protection to get out of the museum afterwards.

"We actually were united in the 15th century," I offered. "It was under Danish rule. But Norway and Sweden didn't like it much."

Luckily, I also got to sign a few books, and it was a great audience, spirited and tolerant of my rantings.

Wednesday I'll be at Garfield Book Store, Pacific Lutheran University in Tacoma before I continue to Minneapolis, St. Paul, Madison, Milwaukie, Chicago, and Scandinavia House on Park Avenue in New York.

Life is good and I'm enjoying myself immensely.


Ah, the life of a writer, going from one airport to the other. Please notice how my sweater doesn't match my suitcase. If only I could afford a publicist who would follow me around like a lap dog telling me where to go, what to say, how to dress.