Iowa

I somehow managed to drive across the country a couple of times without ever seeing Iowa. Without even passing through it. I guess it's not that hard to avoid—just don't take 80—but I was still a little ashamed to call myself a traveler while skipping most of the midwestern U.S. Then came a chance for redemption.

If you've never been to Iowa, here's the scoop: It's exactly what you imagined, except for the sharpness of its beauty. It's truly beautiful, full of corn, gentle neighbors who always say hello, and gasoline so cheap it made my West Coast brain hurt.

corn!

And it's in the middle of nowhere. But you suspected that part.

I landed at the tiniest airport ever—Quad City, in the heart of Moline, IL—to visit my childhood friend who teaches at Cornell College (go Rams!) in Mount Vernon, IA. One of her students cleverly nicknamed her Pro Mac, so that's what we'll do here in Blogland also.

After landing, I gave Pro Mac the usual call to strategize finding each other outside the airport. "Don't worry," she said with that special touch of wryness reserved for anyone who lived in Manhattan for the better part of a decade and then wound up in Iowa, "It's like a bus station. It won't be a problem."

don't blink

Right she was. I was one of two people standing outside when her car pulled up in the little airport driveway. There wasn't a white-gloved officer in sight to order us along, the way they do at Oakland and SFO if you spend longer than 10 seconds by the curb. Pro Mac got out to walk the dog, Roscoe, who quickly made friends with the other woman who was waiting.

Welcome to the Midwest.

Pro Mac and I spent a relaxing few days wandering along Mt. Vernon's cute downtown, the pretty Cornell campus, and Iowa City. Since the celebrated Iowa Writers' Workshop is based there, the city has a literary charm, with nice restaurants, lots of coffee shops, a few overpriced boutiques and funky vintage stores, and a collection of wise bon mots engraved in the sidewalks:

"poetry is nothing but its own madness"

I also got to visit Pro Mac's class. That was a huge kick, because even when you know your friends are great at their jobs, you almost never get to see them in action. Also I got to feel like a big, scary grownup for a couple of hours, with a roomful of cherubic, brace-toothed, 18-year-old faces eyeing me nervously.

It's OK, kids. I was you five minutes ago. Trust me . . . life gets easier.

you will escape the dorms

But my favorite Iowan pastime is officially apple-picking, followed closely by apple-eating. Pro Mac and pals planned a date for us at Wilson's Orchard, where a crowd of locals had gathered to spend a perfect fall Sunday shaking down the trees.

farmscape

what century is it again?

the rogue apple in its natural habitat

Each variety of apple has its own row or set of rows, with the trees spaced generously apart and supported by posts:

The varietals are neatly marked by name, season, and hybrid recipe (if applicable):

sorry, dad, just missed your season

Hungry? Here, you can have one. I just took a little bite:


Before I sign off, I'd be remiss not to mention the two most popular Iowan modes of transportation. First is the tractor, of course:

there's a john deere shop at the airport

shocking but true

And the second is anything—from shiny SUVs to ancient pickups to minivans stuffed with apples and kids—with a vanity plate. I've never seen so many vanity plates. Every other car seemed to have one:


Now if I'd only spotted a tractor with a vanity plate . . . traveler's bliss.