Blending In: Americans Don't Wear Speedos... But I Do. What's a poor U.S. expat to do to escape a public stoning? Don political camouflage, of course, and pretend to be native.

Byline: David Ray

Afraid I was "going French" after living on the Riviera for three years, my parents express-mailed me several American-flag lapel pins, similar to the kind worn by President George W. Bush and bearing the words, PROUD TO BE AN AMERICAN. I, by contrast, fear a public stoning in Nice's city center--and strive to conceal my American identity. Operation Comme des Garcons, I call it. That is, blend in with the locals.

My transformation began at 0900 hours on the beach, one recent weekend, in a skimpy black Speedo. No American would be caught dead in one, except perhaps tri-athletes and the most avant metrosexuals. But I've never felt safer in a disguise that offered so little ultraviolet protection. Political camouflage has become my obsession. Off the beach, I wear prefaded jeans by Faconnable, low-cut Pumas and football jerseys sporting my new alias, ZIDANE. Deodorant has been replaced by enough eau de toilette for two. I briefly considered a tattoo but was spared the pain by my children who "loaned" me several peel-offs featuring Power Rangers.

My diet has taken a left turn, too. Gone are gin and tonics with a squeeze of lime. Real men in France drink pastis--a licorice-tasting milky fluid that creates a shock-and-awe effect on the taste buds. (If you cannot imagine the flavor, mix a cup of Listerine with your kid's leftover ...