Not all Americans abroad speak loudly, but whenever an abrasively amped voice here turned heads, it was attached to a cornfed blowhole: the woman in the gelateria under the impression that speaking louder and slower made her English comprehensible to the Italian-speaking clerk; the woman in the hall recounting her life story to some poor soul at 4 a.m., heard clearly through our hotel room’s door; the bratty teen on the street who whined to her parents, “I want shoes. Shoes, shoes, shoes!”; the trattoria patron trumpeting, “Excuse me! Sir? Excuse me! Can I get some ice for my Coke?”; and the usual couples arguing over directions, which start out using the word “hon” in a patronizing fashion, followed shortly by shouting.
But while anyone can hear an American, I found it tough to distinguish them on looks alone. At the Uffizi in particular, I entertained myself with a guessing game based on clothing, hair, eyewear, even posture, then sidled near to see if I could overhear what language they may have been speaking. Unfortunately, I heard little because the Uffizi attracts reverent patrons (although that could just be doggedness from the long wait in line). Most of the time, though not always, I found the stereotypes hold true: Americans like clothing with logos, ballcaps and bad shoes.