When I was your age I lived in London and corresponded regularly with a boy of my own age who lived in Paris. One summer our parents decided we were old enough to exchange visits. He came to my home first. For the first time in my life I realised how little I knew about my own birthplace. The day after he arrived, for instance, I took him to Hyde Park. ‘Why is it called Hyde Park?’ he asked me. ‘Why is the Serpentine so called? Where does the water come from? Whose statue is that? How large is the Park? To whom does it belong?’ These and a hundred other questions opened my eyes to my appalling ignorance about my own city. Before long I had bought a guide book in an endeavour to keep ahead of my friend's curiosity.

It was not merely the history of London's famous landmarks that I learnt as a result of my friend's visit. I learnt to see through a stranger's eyes. ‘Where shall I post my letter?’ he asked on the day he arrived. ‘Why, there!’ I replied in amusement. We were standing opposite a pillar-box. It was only then that I learnt that not in every country were post boxes red in colour and cylindrical in shape. I began to see people differently too. The shop assistant from whom we bought a block of chocolate acted, so I learnt, differently from the Parisian shop assistants. Pierre commented on the behaviour and attitudes of our bus conductors, railway officials, children, parents, postmen, everyone. In two weeks I learnt more about London and the English than I had learnt in my entire life before. Long after I had ceased to correspond with him, I still thought of him gratefully as the boy who had opened my eyes to my own home and country.

There are a number of books about people in strange countries, both fact and fiction. Here is an extract from High Road Home by William Corbin, to give you an idea of the United States as seen by a French boy.