#84 Nice, and Not-So-Nice.
The air here smells like cinnamon. Well, actually, that could be a lie. It all depends on the wind. You see; if there is no wind then the air here smells like cinnamon. But, if the wind is strong and especially when it’s blowing in from the North West, well, then, the air actually smells exactly like pig shit.
But in the morning, when the sun is rising and the sky opens up to reveal a deep, tranquilizing blue backdrop for the puffiest, cleanest looking bleached white clouds, and there is nary a wind to waft the manure odor my way, I swear to the gods of Iowa that the air here smells exactly like cinnamon.
And much like the sky and the clouds and the natural scent of the air, the people here, are, well, nice. I know, that’s a paltry word, and it’s only four letters, and we’re taught to use it to describe people and places that we like when we’re about five years old, but when it comes to describing Iowa (which is in itself a four letter word) the word nice seems to be most apt, so I’m going with it.
I enjoy waking up each morning with the sun and going for a light walk on the pale gravel road that surrounds my parents’ “farm house,” as I like to call it. There’s a crisp and static, almost electric hum in the still morning air, and the only other sounds I can detect are the sounds of my sneakers crunching down on the gravel road, which Jefferson County announced in 2005 would be paved sometime in 2011. Iowa paves roads at the same rate that Senators run for re election.
They say there are more pigs than people in Iowa, and by most of the locals’ calculations, which corroborate nicely with my own observations, if you include cops as pigs; this statement has to be true. When the two lane undivided highway sign says fifty-five, you better look down at your speedometer, and keep yourself within about five miles an hour of that posted limit, or before you know it, you’ll be handing out your license and registration to a state trooper.
And sure, life runs at a slower pace here than it does in the big city, and sure, a trip into town to the local Radio Shack is about the most exciting errand I will run this week, or next, but it doesn’t mean that there is no culture here. People here just tend to pace their goals and their lives differently than “us city folk,” but their irises reveal the same keen, spirited interest in the nature of life as any city folk I’ve ever encountered.
But the secret to happiness in rural Iowa lies in the careful study of the sunrises, the sunsets, and the thunderstorms. The lightening shows here go off several times a week, and they are well worth the price of admission. As a matter of fact, if the heavens could somehow oblige my not-so-secret wishes by throwing a little Pink Floyd on in the background, I’d be in perfect bliss every time it stormed here. But beggars can’t be choosers, unless they are politicians (yes, I just coined that phrase!)…
But Iowa is certainly not the greatest place on Earth. This is because no one place on Earth could be the greatest place, or we’d all be stampeding towards it, crushing each other in our hurried effort to get there, just like desperate fans trying to get a closer spot at a soccer match in Brazil.
I mean, everywhere you go, you can be certain of two things: if you are in a good mood when you get there, you’ll probably like most of what you see, and if you’re in a bad mood when you arrive, then you’ll probably find a lot of things to complain about.
Personally, I’ve been a complainer most of my life, so I’m used to feeling disappointed and let down by my experiences, because I always imagine the experience as better than the reality could ever be—
—But! There’s something damn nice about Iowa—and oh no, there I go again, using that darn word. But there is something nice about it here, and part of it has something to do with the fact that people here seem more laid back, happy, and content than anywhere else I’ve ever lived.
The overwhelming characteristic that I notice about most indigenous Iowans is that they do not have an air of anticipation to them. Most everywhere else that I’ve ever lived (New York, Florida, California, Pennsylvania, and Oregon) I have found that the people in these locales seem to possess a certain sense of anticipation that rocks back and forth behind their eyes. It seems as if they are waiting for something, expecting something; they’re multitasking between the present and the future.
Here, in Iowa? Exactly my point. They are HERE, in Iowa; that’s what the people are doing. They are here. They have arrived. And this is it.
So I’m a stranger in a strange land. A goofy kid dressed up as an even goofier semi-adult, trying to figure out the locals’ secret, trying, impatiently, to learn their carefully mastered art of patience; I am practicing my relaxation technique, attempting to take things one thing at a time, trying to fit in with people who do not ask anyone to try to fit in. No matter where I move, I seem to master the art of irony before anything else.
So my goals are simple: No more multitasking. No more preoccupation with the future. No more intense inane and insane neuroses.
No, it’s time I learn how to make nice. Even if that means waking up to the smell of cinnamon and shit, which, I won’t lie, it isn’t exactly the most pleasant smell I’ve ever encountered. As a matter of fact, I’d dare to call that scent, well, “not-so-nice.”
