T A B L E_T A L K Interested in visiting the former Soviet Union? Get advice on travel and living in the new Russia in Table Talk's Wanderlust area R E C E N T L Y An Italian romance: Chapter Two By Laura Fraser The first time, he had helped heal her heartbreak. Could their second fling be as good as the first? (09/29/98) Running with the Hadza By Eric Seyfarth Tanzania's Stone Age tribe represents a living link to our earliest ancestors (09/27/98) "Live fast, die young and leave a beautiful corpse" By Lesley Hazleton Searching for the site where James Dean died (09/25/98) Letter from Pusan: The party's over By Rolf Potts The heady rise and fall of expat decadence in South Korea (09/24/98) Swimsuits -- and more! By Beverly Gage Past and present collide at Atlantic City's annual Miss America extravaganza (09/23/98) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner S A L O N E M P O R I U M FREE! 12-ounce bag of Salon Blend with a purchase of $30 or more. While supplies last.		--------I o w a  h e a r t l a n d --------------When you're from the Midwest, travel presents --------------its own special joys and dilemmas. BY JENNIFER NEW | It was late February and an Arctic blast had descended on Iowa. Gone was the beauty of the first snowfall or the comfort of donning a favorite old wool sweater following an Indian summer. Now, dirty snow was piled in parking lots and boots were covered with the white smudge of salt stains. A molelike quality had overcome many people, due to both the cold and the short days. Bleak March was yet to be endured. But I was in Los Angeles, swimming laps outside and going barefoot through the Huntington Gardens, sandals in hand. With any luck, it would be sufficient sustenance to hold me until spring. A friend and I headed north from the city one day in search of beaches and mountains. Stopping at a roadside fish and chips stand, we wedged ourselves into the only available space and shared a table with two hirsute guys. Between gulps of Snapple and bites of battered shrimp, one of them was considering his travel options. "You know where I'd really like to go?" The other man didn't look up from his fish. "Des Moines. They always dump on that place in the movies, so I figure it's probably all right. All right by me anyway. Then I want to see Cheyenne." My friend raised an eyebrow at me over her dark glasses. I smirked and turned toward the ocean view, opting not to divulge my native Iowan status to the would-be traveler. I could have told him to save his money, that though Des Moines did not deserve such scorn, it also wasn't worth the price of a plane ticket. But I've found that it rarely pays to discuss Iowa outside the Midwest. From Ohio, Kansas or Wisconsin, Iowa is just another set of statistics, weather patterns and possible mutual acquaintances. But to talk about it from a place like L.A. is courting misinformation. Polar opposite stereotypes leap to mind, images of gingham wholesomeness competing with slow-witted depravity. Like any place, it is more complex than its media image. Half the gain in traveling is the chance to see one's home and one's self through fresh eyes. It's as much about a change of scenery as it is about relearning the old. A house feels different after time away; the workday holds new angles. Who knows what that man might have realized about Southern California had he actually made it to Des Moines. No matter my point of departure, I've always traveled as an Iowan, measuring the fields of England and the olive groves of Israel against the neat lines of a soybean field in mid-July. I've talked to natives in Maine as the granddaughter of an Iowa farmer and experienced the baking, late-summer heat of wine country as one who has lived through a season in which it topped 100 degrees more than 15 times. Even during the many years when I lived in Seattle, I still carried the memories and residue of this middle-of-the-country spot with me. Part of my decision to return and settle here as an adult came from the realization that this is my point of reference, the constant on my compass. For all its grandeur, Mount Rainier and the Pacific Ocean could never replace the wide open skies and rustling oaks that inform my memory of the past and my vision of the future. Traveling away from here is complicated, however, by the drawback that few people can find Iowa on a map. In France, I discovered an unlikely geographical explanation in Al Capone, a figure most French people seem to know, just as they know Jerry Lewis. When they'd ask where I was from, I'd say near Chicago ("Pres de Shee-cah-go") and they'd light up with recognition: Oui! Al Capone! That proved to be ample clarification. In Israel and England, people had some hazy sense that it was "in the middle." They were clear that it was nowhere near the Golden Gate Bridge, the Statue of Liberty or anything they might want to see if they could ever afford to visit -- a shame really, since some of my most enjoyable times in those countries were far from the well-beaten path. On the other hand, I had a Hungarian landlord in Seattle who lived half the year on each coast and always drove between his two adopted cities. He was crazy about Iowa and always stopped en route; it reminded him of home, of Hungary. N E X T+P A G E | Which is closer to Iowa, Seattle or Chicago?