I don't know about you, but there's something about the Fourth that makes me just want to talk about loving my country. It also makes me want to deck myself out in red, white and blue down to my socks. If it doesn't have that affect on you, maybe some reevaluation is in order.

Anyway, I spent a little bit of time living overseas in the United Kingdom, and I am 100 percent sure I left an imprint of America everywhere I went. (I dressed as Miss America for Halloween and I regret nothing.)

Living with international students, I got a taste of cultures from all over the place. My flatmates alone were from Spain, China, Malaysia, Brazil, the Netherlands, South Korea, France, Italy, Armenia, the Republic of Ireland, and I had a comrade from the good ol' U.S. of A. He and I had a duty to represent our country, because we were the first Americans some of them had ever met. Together we cooked, toured the country, played games and talked. We talked a lot. We talked about what made us different. We talked about what made us the same. It was really amazing what a bunch of people in their late teens and early 20s chose to talk about. I learned about international education, mostly, discussing the cost of higher education, testing and the standard systems for grading and moving up in levels. We talked about politics, focusing primarily on the American presidential election even then. We talked about our favorite foods, music, television shows and everything under the sun. I would definitely say I learned more in the living room of my accommodation than I did in the classrooms.

Through it all, I grew more and more grateful to be from where I am. Everyone was so curious about American culture. They had their own opinions on Justin Bieber, wanted to know why I was not grossed out by the marshmallow Peeps I offered them, and proclaimed their love of "Friends" and "The Office."

One of my favorite stories to tell is that one time I strolled into the kitchen from my room, walked past a group of Italian men, and opened the fridge to grab my carton of milk. Without thinking about it, I unscrewed the cap, drank straight from the container, and put it back. When I started to leave again, I was stopped by one of them, who exclaimed, "We were just wondering if that's something all Americans do! Like in the movies!" And I said, "I can't speak for the whole country, but I was too lazy to get a cup."

I am not sure exactly where my immense sense of American pride came from. Perhaps it was born of my mom always reminding me that I have an ancestor who has fought in every single American war, going back to the Revolution. Perhaps it was the weekly stories my grandfather told of his time in the Navy. Perhaps it was ingrained in me from the musical "1776" or patriotic songs. Whatever it was, I went to Belfast, U.K., loving my own country, and that love only grew.

One time I said something about being from the best country ever, and everyone sort of just looked at me. I was shocked to learn that the rest of the world doesn't think the same about theirs. I always just figured everyone would be just as proud of where they are from. It seems that way from watching World Cup games, anyway. Apparently, it's just us. I can't really explain why in precise words, but I love my country. I know we have so many problems politically, and there's a huge amount of debt, and the homeless rate is obscene, and who knows who will be leading our country next, but I love the United States of America. I tear up over the Star Spangled Banner.

So, toward the end of our stay together, my flatmates and I held a debate of sorts where we argued on different topics. Most ideas were controversial and led to arguments. One, however, was not.

"Who thinks Jessica is the most American girl ever?"

Every single hand was raised. I guess I left my mark.