I was roaming the Belgian countryside on a little motorbike in 1981. Stopped for gas in the middle of nowhere, and the owner of a little store with a single pump out front, an old man, said he was out of fuel. In my bad French I asked him where I could find some, and he said there’s none around.
Then he stopped, looked at me quizzically, and said, “Americain?”
When I told him yes, he smiled and greeted me warmly and filled the little tank for me. He said that he never serves Brits because when they marched through his town in formation during the war it was like a conquering army. The Americans walked through casually, handing out candy and cigarettes.
Awesome story, thanks!