I'd like to make plain at the outset that, though British by birth and upbringing, I'm avidly pro-American. And you'll have to concede I have the bona fides to prove it: an American wife. She made clear early on that, wherever the next few years might take us, a future together will eventually mean a future in her native Indiana.

So my attachment to this country must be understood to extend beyond the superficial. Which entitles me, I hope, to offer these recollections, more in fondness than dismay.

They date from my first trip to the Land of Opportunity six years ago, when I was 22. I came through a student exchange program to work at a YMCA summer camp in Ohio. Several of us foreigners -- some Australians and New Zealanders and I -- were brought on as counselors to broaden the kids' experience. It was a great idea.

I spent my days and nights answering all kinds of questions about my homeland. Some examples: "Do you have TVs and VCRs?" "Do you have cars?" and "Do you have burgers?" I wasn't able to figure which Fourth World country the kids were confusing Britain with. What interested many of them even more was hearing me pronounce multitudes of words in my "funny accent."

"You talk weird," in short, was the campers' general verdict. Not that I was fazed. My sponsoring agency had prepped me for the experience of being a foreigner on these shores. They'd even provided me a list of "cultural warnings": Use first names only for people who are your age or younger. . . . If you ask for help you'll get it, but make sure you ask. . . . Use of nicknames is common: An American may be Al, but he won't be Algernon. . . . Americans are jealous of their personal space and big fans of deodorant. . . . Finally, this slightly mysterious tip: Be prepared for the fact that the average American is not very geographically aware.

Along with the cultural warnings, the agency admonished: There's nothing quite like the real thing. Which was true enough. That geography alert, especially, turned out to be a decided under-statement.

Of course, I never expected much from schoolkids. I didn't think they'd know anything about England, and I wasn't disappointed. But the adults did surprise me. From my collection of howlers, some precious examples:

"England -- isn't that near New Zealand?" (I suspect there was some confusion with Australia.) When asked about where I'm from, I sometimes say about 40 miles east of the capital. One girl responded, "So you live near Paris?" On reflection, by American standards, I do live "near" Paris.

Americans like to think big. I asked one college student how big she thought Britain was. "About the size of the United States," was the reply. (Britain would fit neatly inside Nebraska.)

A question I've been asked more than once is, "What language do you speak in England?" (I sometimes give in to the temptation to answer, American.) A variation on the language question is, "How many languages do you speak?" (I've been known to expand my repertoire to include South African, Australian, Canadian, Irish, Scottish, and of course Maltese. When I try that with a group of college students, there's usually one who doesn't catch my drift.)

Despite encounters like these, I enjoy speaking to Americans about Britain, especially when I get the chance to dispel myths, such as the assumption that the entire country amounts to a quaint village beside a castle on a hill. The questions asked most often have to do with the monarchy and the supposedly universal custom of stopping work for afternoon tea. The answers are, respectively, No, not all people in England have personally met the queen, and, Only if you're a member of a union.

I should point out that although I've been taken aback by Americans' lack of knowledge, I'm quite forgiving. America is a great country and one that I'm willing to believe the majority of citizens could actually find on a map. (Though I wouldn't necessarily want to put that notion to the test.) Let's face it, knowing where Britain is falls just short of being a life-and-death issue.

Besides, some Americans can locate Britain, and can do it with the greatest of ease -- among them my Midwestern bride.

Now that it looks like I shall be spending the rest of my life in the colonies, I find I have some boning up of my own to do. I'm working hard at my Americanization. This has involved mastering the National Anthem, becoming a Bears fan, dreaming of owning a Ford truck -- and, of course, trading in "God Save the Queen" for "God Bless America."

IAN SLATTER