In England and France, I got a lot of eye-rolls for simply being American (or maybe for just being a foreign tourist), but I'm not sure I'd call that discrimination. In Morocco, for some reason, no one in in the shops would make change. I had been given larger bills and was barely able to spend them. The one time a museum was forced to make change, I was given the oldest, dirtiest, shabbiest bills I have ever seen. No one wanted to accept them either. Most of the time in Morocco, I found this amusing and frustrating, but not demeaning. Some people in Morocco were charming, but most were not. (This was my experience decades ago; someone else may have had a very pleasant experience).
I don't think it was actually discrimination, but while in Italy, my friend and I were at a restaurant for dinner. The waiter came over to give us menus and realized we were American. This was during the Iraq War. He left the table and although several diners came in after us and got their food orders taken right away, we were still waiting to see out waiter. When he finally came back, we told him that if he objected to serving Americans, we would be happy to find a restaurant that didn't and to remember that not all Americans supported the war. After that, he became out best bud. Even comped us a glass of wine each.
The first time - I had an introduction to the first cousin of my trustee. When I arrived at her apartment in Neuilly, Paris, she invited me in for tea. We sat bolt upright on Louise XV brocade and gilt chairs, sipping from floral and gilt porcelain teacups, no milk, while she interviewed me, first about my relationship with her cousin, then about my surname (I was born a Harcourt.) Did I know that the Duc d'Harcourt of Normandy was a Catholic and a member of the Academie Français? Yes, I knew - but he could hardly be counted as my relative since our bloodlines parted company in the 11th century. How was his Catholicism or his membership of the intelligentsia relevant to me? Well, I'm most sorry my dear, but it is not socially appropriate for me to know you. It's my position you see, as mother of the chief rabbi of France. I must ask you to leave and not approach me again. Later, I slipped a couple of tickets to "La Boheme" under her door with a note of apology - and that was the end of it. Sadly, I understood. She was of the generation that had lived through WWII - Hitler's invasion of Paris - the trauma of the occupation - the zillion forms of insults and atrocities committed against Jews - not just by the Nazi's by other French people, mostly Catholics. Those wounds were too great for her to see me as an individual. I never had the chance to tell her that I was not Catholic or even Christian, or that my father had done much to rescue Jews who had survived the holocaust, and that was one of the reasons why her cousin became my trustee.
Second time - One of the students at St Martin's School of Art, London, UK, Saul Greenberg, invited me home to meet his mother. She invited me in, took me into the kitchen, turned me to face the light of a window, put her hands on either side of my face to hold my head, and scrutinized my face. "Do you have any Jewish in you? I can't see it." "My great-great-grandmother in the female line was Jewish, daughter of a London goldsmith. Her husband immigrated to Australia during the Bendigo gold rush." "Do you identify as Jewish?" "Not really. Her descendants didn't identify and I was raised atheist." "How unfortunate. You can stay for now, but I don't want you coming on to my son. Understand?" I understood. :( He was a gorgeous young man - inside and out.
Other instances of racism have been from the occasional migrant, black from Africa or America, Indian, Malaysian - or from Aborigines - assuming that I'm racist because I'm white - unambiguous words dismissing me as a potential acquaintance or friend because being an Anglo I must surely be a racist - not waiting to find out who I really am. Again the sadness hits me. I must bear the brunt of what my kind have done to others.
Jane S 