I started my career in Canada. To be taken seriously there, at a time when prime minister Whitlam was unduly fond of benchmarking against "comparable countries", you needed to show a whiff of deference to local worthies - and to Canadian worthiness. While acknowledging that Canada's and Australia's problems and priorities were quite similar, seriousness entailed conceding that Canada was just a little way ahead - in funding, publicity and self-criticism (if not in ideas or imagination, let alone results).

In Israel, by contrast, you were taken seriously if you could conduct a conversation like the chess machine I owned at the time, refusing to be fussed or confused, alert and ready to ratchet up to the next level of complexity if bested in a contest or two. For Israelis, living precariously on the edge requires always having your wits honed and tuned. As for foreigners, like one character in the wonderful novel, A Gentleman in Moscow, Israelis were looking for "a serious soul in search of serious ideas to be serious about". I regularly reminded myself that, having gone to war four times (in 1967, 1973, 1979 and 1982), gave Israelis of my age a perspective on seriousness which I could never fully understand. On a lighter note, studied informality corrected any spurious seriousness; the Foreign Minister once deferred talking to me until I had removed my jacket and tie.

Turning to France, seriousness there was invariably conflated with a fully sound command of French - structurally, grammatically and semantically, with an Australian accent almost forgiven. Two corollaries to master were dexterity in introducing the subjunctive into the first paragraph of anything written or said, as well as Cartesian categorisation of an issue. Each line of thought had to be divided into three main points, with two sub-points to be elaborated under the second, before returning with aplomb to the third. Show-offs might try to work into a conversation some more obscure connotations of French verbs, like "s'epanouir" (to blossom, as a woman after her first lover) or "s'amonceler" (to gather together, as clouds before a storm).

In Germany, being serious - "ernst", in all its heavy-weight connotations - came with the territory. Jokes would have signified bad form, whimsy an intellectual failing, frivolity an insult. More serious by nature than any other nationality, Germans bothered less about language skills. They were flattered and surprised when foreigners spoke good German, even when one such fluent foreigner (Vladimir Putin) had learned the language while spying on them. For his part, Putin and his Russia take seriously those who defer to them, to them, by being seen to take seriously Russia's bloated notion of its place in the world.

Italians required an assurance that you were seriously in love, with their country, its cooking and its habits. As my son reminded me once in Florence, "it doesn't matter how much fun you have in Italy; the locals are always having more". A fondness for Italian history was not compulsory. Those Borgias and Medicis, Leonardo and Raphael, baroque and rococo, that was merely icing on the cake. Much of Italy's national story was carted around like leg-irons (the shaming success of the Romans) or air-brushed (the shaming tragedy of Mussolini).

In the United States, being taken seriously did demand a thorough grounding in history, America's. No other country's story mattered much. Shoes had to be buffed to a high shine, though polished shoes were usually worn with a baggy American suit and daggy American tie. Working hard was compulsory as well. The most productive hour in the office was between seven and eight in the morning, when all the Americans to whom you needed to talk were at work. Their minders (executive assistants or chiefs of staff) usually were not around. Then, for that one hour, those who presumed they were running the world made it quite clear that they appreciated your being hard at work too.

In India, being taken seriously meant you were obliged to learn - using that inimitable Indian technique, "byhearting" - rather more arcane material. You could never bluff an Indian by feigning knowledge of cricket. I once left Harsha Bhogle pondering with a question about how often both wicketkeepers had taken off the gloves to bowl. Other than that fluke, I watched bemused as forests of hands rose at quiz nights to answer questions like, "apart from his position as captain, what was distinctive about the Nawab of Pataudi's place in a particular Indian touring side?" (He was the youngest player, captain at 21.)

India also demanded - and richly rewarded - curiosity, based on a recognition that the country was at once unfathomable and endlessly fascinating. Tough love was the default response; few Indians are sentimental about their land. Oddly, India was the only place I have ever worked where locals took seriously the fact that you had written a book or two. That respect for literacy was more usefully applied to ensuring that children read an English language newspaper every day.

What about us? What conditions do Australians set before taking newcomers seriously? I suspect outsiders are well advised not to patronise us and certainly not to extol their own country as having solutions to all problems. Instead of disparaging Australia, the serious neophyte should know to be dazzled by the clarity of our light, beguiled by our animals and enthralled by our beaches. That disposition may leave us too susceptible to flattery. After that, such a newcomer should remember to be blunt, taking us as we are, answering straight questions with straight answers, not being annoyed by rough edges or any evident lack of finesse.

Those elementary benchmarks define us by what we do not like. To them we should add a recognition of how post-settlement Australia has changed and learned by welcoming successive waves of quite serious foreigners.