12th September 2012
There’s one behaviour Americans sometimes display that always leaves me bemused, and I’m fairly certain I’ve never found it elsewhere. I’ll call it “The Story of Me”. You meet an American, say hello, and without any prompting or further ado they tell you all about themselves, their family history, where they live and what they do. Like this morning. Driver of the airport shuttle asked a guy where he was flying to. He said Sarasota. She said “oh, I have family not far from there” and then proceeded to explain where they lived, but also where all the other parts of her family live, why she lives in Denver instead of Florida, what her grandkids are like, what her children do for a living and what she thinks of Denver. The guy nodded along and said “uh-huh” and “oh really?” at all the right places.
I’m sure not all Americans do it, but I’ve encountered it enough times that I’d definitely call it a national trait. The trouble with us Brits is that we’re too self-effacing to think that other people would be interested in The Story of Me unless they actually ask us for it.
Just to clarify: I’m not poking fun, I’m just explaining a behaviour that leaves me baffled. Language aside, we still have cultural differences a-plenty.
Tonight we’re in a generic chain hotel near Denver airport, albeit in a jolly huge suite. Much bigger than our first bedsit in Brighton in fact. We’re on holiday with my parents and brother, two weeks centred around Yellowstone NP but taking in bits of Colorado, Wyoming and South Dakota. There will be lots of driving.
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