American culture seemed to me to be nothing but a big, plastic, supersized mall full of fast food, trashy television, and obese gun-nuts. The Europeans, on the other hand, had classical architecture, fine wines, and seven weeks of vacation. We'd spawned Rush Limbaugh, they had Alain Ducaisse.
And yet, after a year or so, I found myself missing American exuberance, our candy-striping, sunny-faced, star-spangled Can-Do-ism. Our happy informality. More than anything else, I missed our out-sized, confessional, emotional incontinence. I missed the way that Americans just talk.
We Americans don't give a shit if your great-great-great grandmother back in Dumfries once showed her ankle to a vicar, or if your name has a "von" in it, or if you went to one of the Grandes Ecoles. We don't care about your pedigree. As far as we're concerned, pedigree is for dogs.
- Author Susan Jane Gilman in a post on the Powell's Blog, where she's this week's guest blogger
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