Tuesday, 1 May 2012

Day 21 - Nigel goes to Iowa City

What with Peter sleep-talking about the weather and my frequent need to dispense the remnants of 22oz of beer we had imbibed 10 minutes before hitting the sack, it had not been the best of sleeps.  So when Peter’s alarm roused me at 7:30, of course, I unloaded a barrage of pillows upon him and went back to sleep.  I finally woke at nine to find Peter gone, having hidden the entire supply of coffee save a solitary sachet of decaffeinated (well played, Peter).

Gazing out the window I was greeted by yet another grey day.  For our first two weeks - to my delight and Pete’s disgust - we had managed to outrun all the wild weather of thunderstorms and tornadoes.  I actually got so burnt one afternoon in the Texan spring sun that I looked like a toffee apple upon which someone had crudely etched a face.

Unfortunately in St Louis the weather finally caught up us.  We had bucketing rain and howling wind and only ten miles south they had hail the size of baseballs, or cricket balls for you colonial folk.  Even driving up to Iowa we had not succeeded in shaking it off.

 
So on a whim I decided that I would head into Iowa City.  Last night at the bar we had met a waitress who had impressed us with the most extensive knowledge of New Zealand we had yet encountered, knowing at least three of the ingredients of Pavlova.  Peter was so impressed with her advice and vast antipodean knowledge that he tipped the kind of figure that caused several of my orifices to reflexively tighten.  I suspect it is also no coincidence that she was quite a lovely wee thing…

She had spoken glowingly of Iowa City and had insisted that it was well worth a visit, though she had previously lived in a small farming town of 1500 with one of those French names that you can’t say without expectorating, so her judgement may have been suspect.  However she had mentioned that they had a pedestrian mall and always one keen to witness Americans en locomotion sans machinery * I grabbed my camera and headed into town.  I also desperately needed a real coffee.

* This is not quite accurate.  In places like Colorado we so saw so many people walking, running, biking and climbing that I actually broke into quite a sweat (though many were clad in the kind of figure-hugging garments that active girls tend to favour, which may also have been a small factor).


By the time I arrived I was feeling quite peckish so I popped into a market-come-cafĂ© named “The Bread Company”.  Boy, what a find.  It had a huge selection of soups and all the bread was free.  They were also quite happy for me to try each before deciding.  After settling on a Mexican tomato soup and grabbing as much bread as I and two waiters could carry I made my way to the alfresco seating.  The flavour was actually quite reminiscent of a certain Mexican dish my wife cooks me when I am well behaved, so it is possible I was sobbing a little while I ate, it did seem that people were staring at me.


If my various overseas trips have taught me anything it’s that eating in a foreign country is no different to how the settlers had to forage for food when arriving in newly discovered territories.  It takes a while to learn what nuts are good to eat and what fruits will sending you running for the nearest long-drop screaming like a bible-basher with Tourettes.  When we first arrived in Texas we once popped into a convenience store desperate for food then emerged a little later deciding that while we were hungry, we weren’t that hungry.  We were even getting to the point where we approached mealtimes with the same level of dread as when we entered airport security and saw a TSA agent limbering up his fingers.

But soon you learn to recognize what is good to eat and often surprise yourself when you stumble upon a particularly impressive little eatery, such as this one.

Feeling quite sated, I walked extensively around the pedestrian mall.  It was pleasant enough with a little added charm from a number of old building erected at a time when designers cared enough to add a little flare.  Alas this was somewhat outweighed by the proliferation of those characterless boxes that come about when the primary design criterion is coming in under budget (New Zealand is also particularly bad for doing this).

   

 

Iowa City is quite small and centred on a university, a “college town” in the local parlance.  And it sure has a “college” feel about it.  The inner city is mainly bars and small trendy coffee hang-outs and shiny young students strut about with an air of determination as shiny young students are apt to do.  There is little retail in the town centre itself, as that has all been sucked up by the massive malls that lay outside of the city.  I did stumble upon a bookstore and entered only to find it was chock full of banner, pennants, t-shirts and other gaudy items for the “Hawkeyes,” which I took to be the local football team. When an attendant saw me looking distressed, I uttered, “Where are your, uh, books?” to which I was directed to a small room in the basement.

Afterwards I returned to the car to discover I still had over an hour remaining.  Not one to waste a few quarters I decided to head East (or quite possibly North).  I was hoping to walk far enough to get lost and thus have to find my way back to the car, unfortunately the city was so sensibly laid out that at no point did I ever have any doubt about where I was and so the journey had about as much mystery as a modern honeymoon.



As I walked I encountered a number of tree-lined streets, but they were mostly filled with uninspired student accommodation.  I also came across many of the kind of service roads that are particularly popular with movie makers when they want to show a hair-raising car chase.



After a bit I was feeling somewhat parched and popped into store where I interrupted an attendant who was eagerly effecting the removal of large blockage in his nasal cavity.  Once the awkwardness had passed we chatted for a bit; he was a proud, if somewhat unexcited, Iowan.  When I pressed him on the local attractions, he related two.  First was Pizza joint; second – if I was after something a bit more exotic – a buffalo wing restaurant. Having encountered this kind of response a number of times on our journey, where well-meaning locals will tell you about how to make your way to out-of-the-way little villages so you can find some great little restaurant, it occurred to me that many Americans take to travel in the same way as the Chinese, that is, impressive buildings and beautiful scenery are just the fluff to fill the hours between restaurants. 

I also asked him about the best local beers to which he apologised saying he was only twenty so hadn’t tried any yet. How quaint.

The weather had grown quite warm so I gulped down my water and unwrapped the nut bar he had recommended me.  Now perhaps he had been playing a joke, but it was about the weirdest thing I had ever tasted.  The interior was like solidified marshmallow, yet it was wrapped with salted peanuts, it really was quite unpalatable.  But it had cost me 75c so with a heavy sense of resignation I ate it.


That evening I met up again with Pete at the close of the conference.  He was chatting with three Swedish weather folk and I glared at him as he invited them into town for dinner.  Apparently he had forgotten that for the last two weeks of travelling we had been throwing our rubbish into the backseat such that when we took corners it sloshed about like a rogue wave.  Of course, they accepted so we spent many minutes transferring said rubbish into the boot, while they stared at us with mouths agape and cameras clicking. 

We found a nice Italian restaurant and had most enjoyable meal, where the main activity was a competition to see who knew the most about each other’s country.  Let the record show that the Kiwis won!


P.S. Here's another pic for DJ and Aliya...



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