I like Iowa as much as I hate Missouri but after I tell you about Iowa, you’ll wonder why. Me, too.
I ditched the interstates (thank you again, Patrick Wilson) and took beautiful back roads through sleepy little towns. I saw endless corn fields, adorable town centers, and more tractors than I ever dreamed existed.
But there were two problems…
First, I couldn’t get out of Iowa. I was in the southwest corner and trying to cross into Nebraska. I guess no one really wants to go to Nebraska because Iowa doesn’t even give you the option. And when you see signs like this one, just be smarter than me and believe it:
The fact that I have driven 1400 miles without backing up even once deserves a separate blog post, but that sign almost broke my streak.
So, I lost 2 hours trying to escape Iowa. That line from Hotel California kept going through my head. (And now you’re all humming it, too.)
But then there’s the second problem. I say this with trepidation, which means I’m typing it very slowly and deliberately.
Iowa smells like Fritos.
I’m not lying. It took me a few minutes to figure out why the smell was familiar, and a few minutes more to determine the cause. The 8 zillion acres of corn have been harvested but the stalks remain. I guess sun-baked corn stalks smell like Fritos.
So, Iowa Chamber of Commerce, may I suggest a couple of small changes? Even Cool Ranch Doritos would be a marginal improvement.
Almost done but I totally forgot to tell you all that I saw the birthplace of Mrs. Brady! I didn’t get any pictures because I was interrupting a drug deal (Carol would hate that) so you’ll have to trust me.
And a big thank you to Emerson and Ellen Thompson for calling me and encouraging me this morning. And for telling me it’s not illegal to pass the longest funeral procession ever. By the way, I’m sleeping at a sketchy gas station tonight so if there’s a funeral in my near future, you all better step up with a big ass funeral procession!