Jul
06

Heaven.

Are you planning a trip to Iowa? No? Well, in case you change your mind, let me tell you a few things about The Corn State, as it is known (Maybe):

IOWA IS EMPTY.
You could gather up all the towns and cities in Iowa and move them into one corner, perhaps renting the rest to the Chinese, who could really use the space. If you drive ten minutes out of even the capital, you can see for miles and miles, nothing but green fields and gently undulating hills. Cell phones were invented for places like Iowa, because should your car break down out there, it may be years before they find your remains, and the crudely lettered sign you made from your own excrement.

IOWA IS RELAXING.
As long as your cell phone is present and charged, a drive through Iowa is both beautiful and calming. Which is a good thing, because the aforementioned emptiness has so distorted the perception of Iowans that they think nothing of driving an hour or more to visit one another for dinner. It is also very quiet, which can be difficult to get used to at first, especially at night, when it also becomes unnaturally dark. But if you are lucky enough, as I am, to have access to a secluded Iowan screen porch, there is nothing more soothing than to sit in the breeze, with no sounds save the turning of your pages and the crunching of your bacon.

IOWA CAN’T SPELL.
One of Iowa’s signature dishes is the “Maid-Rite,” which is not, as you can see, spelled correctly (or “Spelld Rite,” as they say in Mason City). A “Maid-Rite,” incidentally, is a sort of sauceless sloppy joe, also referred to as a “loose meat sandwich.” (The phrase “loose meat sandwich” seems vaguely dirty to me, but I can’t quite figure out how to make use of that dirtiness, so feel free to think up your own filthy pun, etc). Worse, you can’t drive 50 miles (a pitifully short distance, in Iowa) without seeing a gas station/convenience store lettered with some abominably spelled variation on the “synonym for fast + noun” formula. It is possible that other states are as rife with bad spelling as Iowa, but I didn’t visit those states this weekend, so it’s someone else’s job to write about that.

IOWA HAS KULTUR.
People who live on the coasts tend to assume that everyone who doesn’t is illiterate and drinks milk straight from an unwashed cow’s teat ( “Do you live on a farm?” my kindergarten pen pal asked in her first letter to me, when I in fact lived in a duplex in Northeast Minneapolis). This is not true. One of my very favorite bookstores is located in Iowa City, and every time I go there I find something that I simply must have, that makes it seem impossible that I existed before I read it, and that I have never seen before. Of course with culture comes pretentious people whose conversations (usually about something sick-making, like the Creative Process, or hemp) make you want to throw the excellent book you are holding straight at their groin, but I suppose that’s a small price to pay.

Really, I had the most wonderful time. We stayed the first and last night with my lovely sister- and brother-in-law, and I found myself wishing, as I so often do, that we lived closer to them. In between we stayed with Scott’s parents, who kindly watched Simone while Scott and I absconded for tapas and books and ice cream. It was a much needed break, and I don’t think either Scott or I realized until we were out of it how deep was the rut we had gotten ourselves into.

Now, lest you keyword search enthusiasts think you’ve been forgotten, let me assure you that you have not—I have simply decided to answer your questions every other week, so that I have more time to write about other things. Not that I don’t think that the person Googling “teenage rectal thermometer insertion” needs assistance, and fast, but I am accumulating a backlog of post topics, so for now, just spike his soda liberally with a fast-acting sedative, and use plenty of lubricant.

By Alexa | Posted in Ceci N'est Pas Une Ecrivaine |