I try (and sometimes fail) to make this a funny blog. There’s enough tragedy in the world already. But I can’t even joke about how much I appreciate and respect the American military. My admiration is boundless, and my sister and I are the first generation in my direct line in a thousand years not to serve as an officer in either the English or American armed forces, which I kind of regret. Most served in various armies, and my father retired as an Army officer and became a civilian lawyer before I was born. But most of our family’s heart is with the Navy.

My grandfather went to Annapolis and then spent his career in the Navy, moving my father and two awesome aunts all over the world with him, and sometimes leaving them for extended stays at sea. Or Vietnam. My grandmother was/is a hero, wrangling three Knight children under the age of 8 from Pensacola to Boston in an un-air-conditioned car in summer, without my grandfather, on 45-mph, pre-interstate roads. She was not even 30. I am aware that it was not easy for any of them. But the Navy is woven into the fabric of my family, and my heart soars when I hear “Anchors Aweigh.” My grandmother says that the Navy sure has taken care of her in her old age.  She still lives in Norfolk, by the way, where the Navy is woven into the fabric of every family.

Commanded the ocean and then took me swimming in it. The best man a man could be.

But I had never been to a U.S. Naval base. My grandmother still goes to the commissary in Norfolk, but I never really knew what it was. This week, my American friend in Rome who is in the Navy reserves asked if I wanted to go to U.S. Navy base in Naples, Italy with him for an afternoon. He needed to buy some things at the exchange and commissary. I could go with him, he said, and buy all the American products I could handle at American prices, in dollars, tax free.

This is officially the easiest question I’ve ever had to answer.

So yesterday, this guy and I settled into his comfortable, American-made car (he has a car in Rome!!) along with my best friend Jennifer who is visiting, and we set the GPS for the U.S. Navy base in Naples.

Leaving Rome, GPS Programmed for US Naval Air Base, Naples

With Jen, who isn’t as into brownies as I am but loves a good adventure.

The ride was uneventful. We stopped for coffee.  We took a few wrong turns in Naples. Then, suddenly we were in America on the base. We showed lots of ID and got lots of clearance, and parked our cars in what looked just like a mall parking lot, with ample, wide spaces and rows of cars with Italian plates but American college bumper stickers. American flags waved. The grass was manicured. The garbage was in garbage cans. Toto, we weren’t in Italy anymore.

Outside the US Naval Base Commissary. The only thing that shows I’m in Italy, not America, is this gaudy purse.

Inside: a mall. With all manner of shops, but they shops didn’t have names. For instance, instead of “Barnes & Noble,” there was “Book Store.” There was also “Jewelry Store” and “Wine Shop.”  There were also services I’d kill for in Rome – like same day dry cleaning, international tax assistance, international cell phones, and a frame shop (ok I wouldn’t kill for that one, but I’ve never seen a frame shop in Rome).

And then the food court. Ok, y’all, I love America. You love America. But let’s just be honest. The way we eat is disgusting. I was very excited to eat Taco Bell and I enjoyed it thoroughly.  But we just cannot digest this stuff, y’all!

“All American Food”

We asked the Italian guy working at the Taco Bell if he ever ate there. He said no way – he brings his lunch from home.

Then, the zenith of my America-in-Naples experience: the commissary.  A giant grocery store, with everything from giant, ‘Murica sized shampoo to whole turkeys  to peanut butter to Cheetos to Mac-n-cheese to Big Red gum to Advil to red-white-and-blue party items to cranberry juice to Clorox bleach. And cereal – rows and rows of delicious sugary cereal. I can eat a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, close my eyes, and I am 8 years old again, in Nashville, getting ready for school.

Food is home, y’all.

My friend Jennifer couldn’t believe my frenzy. Jennifer knows what its like to live in Italy for years without access to American products, but she’s a cook who easily finds the best ingredients possible in Italian grocery stores. I am a baker and need/want things like Pam, Bisquick, cupcake papers, sprinkles, more sprinkles, chocolate chips, butterscotch chips, baking soda, brown sugar (remember brown-sugar-gate at Thanksgiving), powdered sugar. I can’t get any of this stuff (a few things are available for a fortune at Castroni) in Italy. But we’re not in Italy! This is America in Italy, and not only can I get it, I can pay for it in cheap, glorious dollars.

I almost started crying.

Two-hundred-and-fifty dollars and two-and-a-half hours later, I was back in Rome with my bounty. In a moment of extreme nerdiness, I arranged my items on my stairs like jewels in a case, partially to take this photo for my blog, and partially so I could admire my loot one last time before I slowly begin to destroy it. And now, friends, I present to you: WHAT I BOUGHT AT THE NAPLES COMMISSARY:

I may never leave the house again.

And, after stuffing the items into corners of my kitchen that I never knew existed, I noticed the visual poetry in my freezer:

My actual freezer in this actual moment. My maturity has regressed remarkably.

And not just food, y’all. See why I was so giddy about American toiletries?

Guess which shampoo I bought in Rome and guess which one at the Naval base. You’ve seen my hair; you know why this is a big deal.

Friends, I love Italian food. I can eat pizza three times a day and I wake up craving Nespresso. But I also need some Lucky Charms in my life. I need some Reese’s Cups in my life. For me, making my home (for any length of time) in another country is like this. I’ll never be Italian. I’m an American in Italy – I’m Liz In Rome.