Now that I’ve been in Milan for a couple of weeks, I’ve started to notice little things I took for granted in America. Don’t get me wrong, Milan has great food and beautiful people, but I can’t help but hear the voice at the back of my head trying to remind me how great America is. I’ve already started to make my mental list; it’s appropriately titled “Things I Will Never Take For Granted Ever Again As Long As I Live.” The list starts as follows:

Wal-Mart: As much as I would gripe about the little things Wal-Mart would do to annoy me, it never failed to provide me great entertainment (I’m looking at you, mysterious $5 DVD bin), or a dozen donuts when I needed to eat my feelings right before a big project was due. I have yet to find a Milanese equivalent, to my utter dismay. It took me two weeks just to find a bath towel in this city.

Chinese Buffets: HOLY MOLY. I will never again complain about paying so much to eat at a Chinese buffet. Eating at Chinese buffets used to be one of my favorite pastimes when I would go home and visit my family, but I would always cringe about having to pay $12 to dive head first into a platter of lo-mein. However, I will never complain again. Why? Because eating in Milan is so expensive. Just today, I had a €15 Caesar salad. That’s right, €15 (That’s about $20.50) for some lettuce, croutons, and chicken pieces.

Old People: Allow me to explain. In Italy, everything is hyper-sexualized. From the sexualized picture on my bag of sugar to the over-exposed men on the subway posters, everything seems to have a twist that isn’t really found in America.  In America, if a couple displays too much PDA (public displays of affection), they can count on old people to take on the role of moral police and give them judgmental looks. In Italy, a couple can be full-on pretzel twisted, and the little old lady seated next to them will just keep knitting her little scarf away, choosing the path of oblivion.

Italy is beautiful and so culturally rich that you can’t help but embrace it, but America will always have my heart. Maybe as I explore more of Italy (and Europe), I will begin to think otherwise, but for the time being I firmly believe there really is no place like home.

Even though my America does have some flaws, I am not ashamed to admit I’m American and love my country (although my Kenyan roommate begs me to see otherwise). Where else can you wear yoga pants and an old university T-shirt and go get Pluckers’ fried garlic parmesan chicken wings (and the fried mac and cheese! You can never forget the fried mac and cheese!) late at night? And order sweet iced tea somewhere and have it not be accompanied with a weird look? You just can’t do that anywhere else.

‘Murica.