On the seat opposite him was an American tourist. The pattern of his clothes, of his overcoat, the grip he carried, down to his hopeful friendliness and his naive absorption in the scenery, even the guide book in his hand, all gave him away and proclaimed him a small-town American seeing Europe for the first time. In another minute or two, Poirot judged, he would break into speech. His wistful dog-like expression could not be mistaken.
Amanda: Isn't it a shame they're always so stereotypically loud, aren't they?
Shelley: What? What did you say?
Amanda: I w-I was just commenting that you're American.
— Girls on Top, "Four-Play"
Commander Fanshawe: Commander Phillips to see you, sir.
Captain Foster: Who?
Commander Fanshawe: The American Commander for the Creeper plans.
Captain Foster: Oh, yes, I remember. What's he like?
Commander Fanshawe: Like most Americans, sir.
Captain Foster: Oh, pity.
Everyone I knew from America spent every waking moment trying not to seem like those Americans. Big gutted yokels, bumbling around tourist attractions, wearing Fanny packs, blathering “Doo yuo spyeak eynghlis!?!” “I mean, are Americans so dumb we can’t figure out how to work a roundabout?”
