Our regular columnist Molly Quell spent three weeks in her homeland, which doesn’t feel much like home anymore. 

It’s not the size (and quantity) of pickup trucks, the prevalence of athleisure wear, or even the frigid blast of air conditioning that is the most telling sign I am in the United States. No, it’s the lack of sparkling water in every convenience store that reminds me that I have come to a foreign and exotic place.

After more than a decade of living abroad, one would think that I would remember that Americans don’t drink (though it’s shifted slightly) carbonated water and, generally speaking, gas stations and convenience stores don’t carry the stuff. The singular option – Perrier of course – is always tucked in some corner refrigerator. You have to walk past a dozen or so coolers with every single flavor of soda under the sun to get there.

The Perrier, whose expiration date I refuse to look at for fear it came of age during the Bush administration, is always shelved next to something called Liquid Death. After repeatedly encountering their aggressively stupid packaging, I finally looked up exactly what Liquid Death is.

Turns out, the name is at least half false. It is not death, but rather simply still water in a can. (I didn’t not try any of the Liquid Death so I cannot confirm or deny whether the first half of the name – liquid – is accurate, though I have no reason to believe it is not.) According to the company’s CEO, if you put water in an ugly beer can, men will drink it.

That prompts the question: Fellas, is it gay to be hydrated?

Liquid Death is probably a metaphor for America but I’m still too jet lagged to suss that out.

Should you purchase some Liquid Death, you’ll probably be obliged to make small talk with the cashier during the transaction. At the very least, the attendant will ask you how you are doing.

Europeans find this hilarious. (But, the Ameicans don’t really want to know how you are doing!!!! they titter as though the French really mean it when they open every single interaction with Ça va?)

No, the weird social engagement is just how many random Americans you bump into who want to chat. The first approximately 87 times this happens, I am deeply confused and mildly embarrassed.

The only people in the Netherlands who try to engage random strangers in conversations are the teenagers employed to sell you a newspaper subscription or solicit donations for a good cause. So why am I being yapped at in a hotel elevator?

The most deeply disturbing small talk encounter I had was in the middle of a national park, where a woman struck up a conversation with me by telling me she liked my hair.

(As an aside, this happens roughly three times a day in America and basically never in the Netherlands. I wonder what impact that has on my self-esteem.)

She proceeded to tell me that she had 10 children because her and her husband kept trying for a redhead. The story included the details of several of the births. She seemed to be genuinely devastated that after producing near a football team of children, she had not managed to create a ginger.

My husband leaned over and quietly suggested I get into the car, worried this lady was going to resort to kidnapping to compensate for what biology had not provided.

Since returning to the Netherlands, no one has told me my hair is gorgeous but they also haven’t shared stories about their breach birth experiences, so I consider this a win.

More importantly, every Albert Heijn to go has an entire selection of sparkling water. All of which is packaged in plastic bottles. With lids that don’t detach.