I have no proof of Denmark's existence.
I have never been to Denmark. I have never even met anyone from Denmark; though if I did they might not convince me that they were not a Swede pulling my leg.
I have read about Denmark's existence, to be sure. But I know it from both non-fiction and fictional works, so its existence in the World Book encyclopedia (the 1955 edition of which I read quite a bit of when I was a child) is counterbalanced by its being also setting for Shakesepeare's play: Hamlet: Prince of Denmark. Hamlet's Denmark might be based upon an actual Denmark, but the play is rather short on facts; the play could just as easily be based in Germany, unless gloominess is a characteristic Danish trait. Shakespeare did not base his account on World Book; but World Book's details of the place might be a colorful embellishment on a place invented by Shakespeare.
But I know of Denmark being accounted for in works which pre-date Shakespeare; the Danes were said to be fierce occupiers of Britain; the Danelaw is the place which was given to them when the Danegeld proved insufficient to keep them at bay. So Shakespeare may not have been the inventor of the fiction that is Denmark; it may be a carefully contrived conceit of historians from antiquity. It certainly seems so.
Of course you might show me things -- coins, stamps, souvenirs, and so forth. I would simply sigh and show you my collection of Galleons, Sickles and Knuts, and ask you if you've been to Hogwart's.
In exasperation, you would buy me a ticket. Go there, you would say. Go to Travelocity and book yourself a flight, and you could be there in the morning.
But alas, I shrug. I have no passport. And why should I book a plane that will certainly go to no such place, but merely to the place where those citizens who persist in the Denmark delusion are confined?
At this point, you may begin to lose your patience with me.
And you would be quite right to do so. I accept the existence of Denmark. I accept it because I have read about it, and do not believe that there is any motivation for authors who write about it to lie about it. In other words, I accept its existence based on the testimony of others.
I have no particular love of Denmark. I have no particular aversion to Denmark. If you show me pictures from your recent trip to Denmark, I will look at them patiently, ask you how the food and weather were, ask if you saw the city of Copenhagen, and so forth. You might tell me of the stangeness of the place or its relative familiarity; if you told me it was like Germany, I would have some idea of what you meant. If you told me they had strange dietary practices or the people were unusually rude, I would certainly weigh that against other testimony I have received. In my own experience, people have often told me that the French people are rude; I have traveled in France a few times and have not found that to be the case.
The Danes may well be beasts, or they may well be the exemplars of Christian charity. I can say that in my day to day existence, it matters very little to me.
Suppose you came to me and told me that you wanted to live there. That you had heard stories of the place from another friend who had told you how Denmark was better that any place on Earth; and having come to believe this, you were saving up your retirement money to eventually move there. You would dine on Danish delicacies such as Rullepølse and Ribbensteg and would spend your remaining days singing Danish songs and dancing Danish dances as the sun set in the background.
I might express a degree of surprise, and I might even think you somewhat eccentric, but would generally wish you well. I doubt I would try to talk you out of it. I certainly wouldn't argue with you, or tell you that the Danes are a filthy, backward people whom the Germans should have exterminated years ago -- even in jest. I would expect that you might take offense at this.
Now having said that . . . .
I have heard of a country called Heaven. I have read sufficient testimony of its existence to believe in it. I am working diligently to prepare myself to live there. I am acquainting myself with its peculiar customs, and trying to eliminate things in myself that might give offense to its denizens once I reach there. There are a number of vehicles that are said to go there, but I've done some due diligence and believe in the travel agent who is based in Rome; he's the one my family has used in the past and he has given me the most material to consider.
if I pester you with tales of heaven, I ask that you forgive me. It's just that what i hear of the place makes me want to share it. Maybe I'm looking for company on the journey, for I do not want my days there to be spent entirely in the company of strangers.
Tolerate me as an eccentric if you must. Humor me if you will. For if my journey seems Quixotic, it may be yet that I may be convinced of my error.
And If I'm wrong, we're headed to the same place anyway, so what difference does it make?