tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31875695.post2523455892254734127..comments2024-02-07T21:24:37.121-08:00Comments on Blogtrotter: Mullen & Munson's "The Smell of the Continent": Book ReviewJohn L. Murphy / "FionnchĂș"http://www.blogger.com/profile/16616876266772470719noreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31875695.post-82113946008214777502009-09-14T15:29:11.732-07:002009-09-14T15:29:11.732-07:00Typically asute anecdote, VS. It deserves its own ...Typically asute anecdote, VS. It deserves its own blog entry for you; which you will probably be able to add to upon your return from Hellas. Abroad, it pleased me a bit when the tourists took me for Irish, I admit. As long as I shut my mouth, I blended in. My wife, when she lived in London in '76, said back then that shoes were the dead giveaway for Yanks, but with the global shift to t-shirts, Levis and sneakers ("trainers" to you), this may not be as easy a marker nowadays. I still think that diet plays a role in facial structure, so that an immigrant's child "looks" more native than the parents, as well as those subtle tell-tale gaits, gestures, and for us in America, how we use our knife and fork!John L. Murphy / "FionnchĂș"https://www.blogger.com/profile/16616876266772470719noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31875695.post-9700944218172585902009-09-13T23:42:23.676-07:002009-09-13T23:42:23.676-07:00I must get a copy of this. When I lived in Cambrid...I must get a copy of this. When I lived in Cambridge, there was a brief vogue for wearing a badge bearing the legend 'I'm not a tourist, I live here'. I never bought one, but when I moved to Greece a snooty sense of utter separation from the instantly recognisable Brits abroad always made me think of that badge. I always felt flattered when Greeks guessed me as being French or Italian - I never wanted to be taken for British, and in fact never was. It was not only the Brits, though. In Athens I used to resent tourists asking for directions in French, German or Italian, with no apologetic preamble about not knowing any basic Greek. I remember standing at a pedestrian crossing with a bunch of elderly Americans, in an astonishing collection of stripes zigzags, dots and paisley (them, not me) as an elderly vagrant came shuffling by. There was murmured comment on his appearance and then one old boy beamed and announced 'y'know, it could be Christ!' to a chorus of yea-saying. Get these people out of my adopted country, I thought, petitioning Zeus to send thunderbolts. I wonder why. I was just as much a foreigner as they were.Ipmilathttps://www.blogger.com/profile/11370120491927658242noreply@blogger.com