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I think Bill and I would make good friends, and I certainly won't judge his personality on this book. There's nothing worse than an author who makes jokes for the sake of making jokes, and "I'm a Stranger" is fat with needless hyperbole. The quotes and stories aren't real -- they're clearly exaggerated for the sake of wit, undermining every word of this ridiculous book. Friends have recommended "Stranger" for years, citing its amusing indictment of American consumerism; but Bryson lives around Dartmouth, a progressive Ivy League college, in a small, walkable New Hampshire town. Bryson may have spent years in Britain, but the transition from rural England to rural New England isn't that significant; like everything in this dusty book, Bryson scrapes the barrel's bottom for shavings of difference. Now, had he lived in Romania and then moved to Kansas City, THAT book wouldn't require exaggeration -- the culture shock would have sourced limitless comedy (or, I don't know, un-ironic introspection). Here, Bryson imitates Dave Barry (what could be less noble?), proving just how provincial Americans can be: Even a best-selling travel writer thinks that Britons are exotic.