The Wall Street Journal published a survey on European etiquette last week and, not surprisingly, found major differences across the continent. What is de rigueurin France may be verboten in Germany, and so on. But the survey found one area of consensus among Europeans: whatever constitutes good manners, Americans don't have it.
No change there, so. The reputation of people from the US for being rude is long established, even in the US. As far back as 1858, a comedy called Our American Cousin premiered in New York, playing up the contrast between the socially inept character of the title and his aristocratic English relatives. It had punters rolling in the aisles.
They were still rolling seven years later in Washington. In fact, the line where the hero responds to a lecture on manners by calling his hostess "a sockdologising old man-trap" was considered so funny that John Wilkes Booth waited for that moment to assassinate Abraham Lincoln, hoping the laughter would drown out the sound of the gunshot.
Our American Cousin was a benign version of the Yank abroad. Exactly a century later, a novel called The Ugly American gave the subject more serious treatment, this time in the context of south-east Asia. The title was ironic in that the "ugly" character was a good guy while the handsome ambassador (played in the film by Marlon Brando) was arrogant and aloof.
But the term "Ugly American" was soon better known than the book that coined it, gradually becoming shorthand for everything the WSJ reported, and more. The stereotype US traveller is big, loud, brash, opinionated and selfish. The survey didn't include Ireland. If it had, another line might have been added to his charge sheet: the inability to stand a round.
That, at any rate, is the stereotype. But I had an opportunity to judge for myself this year when a hitherto unknown member of my extended American family (Arizona branch) announced his arrival in Ireland, at short notice. He was staying with friends in London, had tracked me down, and wanted to visit the land of his ancestors. There was nothing in his e-mail about having booked a hotel.
The arrival of a guest was badly timed, for various reasons. So in the return e-mail, I dropped a few subtle hints: welcoming him to stay in our "cosy" home, hoping the colicky baby wouldn't keep him awake all night, mentioning the recent outbreak of leprosy in the neighbourhood, etc. And sure enough, with the tact for which Americans are famous, he e-mailed back to thank me for generous offer of accommodation, which he was happy to accept.
It didn't take long after meeting him to regret my initial hesitation. The first thing I noticed about John was that he was not at all ugly. The second thing I noticed was that he was extremely thin. Clearly he would not be eating us out of house and home - a typical European fear where Americans are concerned. In fact, everything about him was the opposite of the stereotype. Even the way he moved was understated, as if he was minding himself, or something.
He was a teacher, he told me, but had found that on a teacher's salary he could never afford a house in his native city, Phoenix. ("Welcome to Dublin," I said). So, aged 30, he was going back to college, to find a better-paid career. In the meantime he lived at home where, among other things, he helped raise his younger sister's child.
Already impressed, I decided to bring him to the Galway Races, that quintessentially Irish occasion. It quickly became obvious this was a mistake. Showing an American around Ballybrit in race week was an unsettling experience. The brashness of the event embarrassed me: I felt like JR Ewing at the oil barons' ball. So on the second day, while I went to the races, I advised John to take a CIE bus tour and recommended Connemara. Typically, he chose the Burren instead and came back with pictures of flowers.
Early on, I had noticed that my guest drank nothing but water. Much as I liked him, this made me suspicious about whether he was Irish at all. I thought about demanding a DNA test to prove we were related. And that's when he mentioned the operation.
He really was minding himself, it turned out. Two months earlier, he had donated a kidney to someone with a fatal genetic condition that made siblings unsuitable as donors. OK, the recipient was his best friend, and it was sheer chance that they were a tissue match. Even so. This was easily the most handsome gesture I had ever been related to. Scanning my past for a similarly selfless act, the best I could find was the Concern Christmas Fast.
John's generosity was catching. A college friend in England who heard about the donation and had a lot of frequent-flier points sent him a present of transatlantic flight tickets, which was how he had been able to visit Ireland, on a cheap connection. The best I could do was ensure he didn't have to put his hand in his pocket while he was here.
When we parted at the airport, he offered me his left-over euros. Naturally I refused, telling him to buy his niece a present, or convert it back into his re-education fund. Then I accompanied him as far as the security check and said goodbye, proud to have met such a superior human being, and wanting to tell everybody in the queue that he was my American cousin.