I was sitting with a hundred fidgety kids in a high school gymnasium in Exira, Iowa, with Bachman-Turner Overdrive blaring "Takin' Care of Business" as Sen. John Edwards' volunteers, scrubbed as clean as baking spuds, charmed the town and warmed up the crowd.

"Welcome, sir, thank you for your service to our country," one strapping lad said to a man in a veterans' cap. The kids poured in, many giddy and clutching cameras like they were going to a Hannah Montana concert. The music thumped and even some of the adults gasped when Edwards appeared in the doorway.

Then the adults actually quieted the crowd by going: "Sshhhh."

Maybe I was stuffed on apple pie from a nearby cafe, but I hadn't felt so full of America since Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon.

After a brisk speech, Edwards plowed through the crowd, signing kids' arms and T-shirts.

A nice woman figured I was not from the area and suggested I could grab lunch at Darrell's, just a few miles away. "They were voted Iowa's finest pork tenderloin," she said proudly.

"And the taco salad is wonderful," added her friend.

There is no place like Iowa in the months preceding its presidential caucuses, the first in the nation, slated for Jan. 3. Between now and then, the state becomes an odd carnival of political bravado, Americana and patriotic theater. The men and women who want to run our country hold pigs and kiss babies (and sometimes vice versa) in a frenzy of farm visits, small-town rallies and get-to-know-me chats at mom-and-pop cafes.

The Des Moines Register tracks which candidates have been to which city, and how many times. Democrats and Republicans have dodged questions in Fort Dodge 20 times so far, for example. They haven't exactly been coming and going in Cumming (two times), but they've met their Waterloo 29 times.

A recent Iowa Poll found that one-fourth of Iowans had already shaken the hand of a presidential candidate, whether they wanted to or not.

Visitors from other states who come for the meet-and-greets get an added benefit: They also get to shake hands with Iowa. They experience Winterset and Woodward (Go, Hawks!), Story City and Shenandoah, Pleasant Hill and Pleasantville and even Pocahontas along the way.

I must have passed through Iowa a hundred times, but I don't remember the last time I got off a main highway unless I had to. Iowa to me was always two rest stops, a Culvers and an ice storm around Thanksgiving on the way to somewhere else.

The most fun I can remember having is making up fictional characters out of the names on the freeway exit signs: Dexter Manley. Eldora Jewell. Maxwell Slater.

But as I cut a diagonal west on a lonely road toward the campaign trail, the rain stopped and shafts of sunlight burst through the clouds like a divine strobe on fields that dipped and rolled in front of me. Hay bales looked arranged by Mondrian, in Rembrandt's light. A man on a tractor waved. A kid wobbled on a bike in a farmyard. On the radio, someone with a small-town radio voice was giving the market report (soybeans were down two).

Then I noticed the signs on a fence.

I scream

You scream

We all scream

For pork loin

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The day after Edwards' appearance, I was in a larger auditorium at Drake University in Des Moines, the Mecca of political discourse. Or, "where people wear three-piece suits and dark socks, often simultaneously," as Iowa author Bill Bryson once wrote.

Rudy Giuliani wore one of those suits, and the socks. He talked about taxes, health care, education. Nice college kids who smelled of patchouli got up and asked him thoughtful questions and laughed at his jokes. One student, dressed in a newsboy cap, made up her mind and bought a "RUDY" button afterward.

And there you had it. The magic and majesty of American retail politics. In a newsboy cap.

The caucuses have been around since 1846, but it wasn't until the Iowa Democratic Party moved it up to Jan. 24 in 1972 that the nation noticed. George McGovern made his move there, R.W. (Johnny) Apple Jr. of the New York Times wrote about it, and Iowa became the place to break from the pack or recede into ignominy. And Iowa has never been the same since.

An exhibit at the Iowa State History Museum in Des Moines, just down the street from the lovely gold-domed Capitol building (tours daily), tells the story of Iowa's political lineage. You walk through faux diners and homes filled with life-sized cutouts of pols, newsies and "folks," with historical details and interactive political polls.

At the museum, you can learn:

-Why the "Muskie bandwagon slid off the icy road" in 1972.

-How Ronald Reagan surprised Gerald Ford in 1976.

-You can even relive in photos the infamous Howard Dean scream.

The exhibit is great. But if you want, you can see the real thing many times over.

Take a long weekend in Des Moines, and it's a good bet you'll be able to take in a half-dozen candidate speeches. Maybe the notion of 45 minutes with Joe Biden sounds like something to get away from, not a getaway.

But then again, you may get a rare "eyeball-to-eyeball" stump speech that is some day coined historic, something you can tell the grandkids about, just like your grandparents talked about Adlai Stevenson's campaign, or Ronald Reagan's barnstorming.

The candidates visit large halls, but they also show up in small cafes, schools and shopping malls, like when Hillary Clinton dropped into the Gigglin' Goat Restaurant in Boone.

"I've even seen footage of Barack Obama going door to door," said Bridget Finnegan, an Iowa native who follows local politics. And for big events, such as Tom Harkin's steak fry, "people come from all over the country," she said. "Even Colorado."

There are scores of "house parties," which are often in a cornfield or someone's home, and many are open to the public.

So, you can also actually sit on a davenport in Davenport for the "Ask Mitt Anything" tour. Anything? OK, Gov. Romney, what about that sacred Mormon underwear?

(Of course, an Iowan would never ask that.)

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Had I been feeling a tad more precious, I could have followed Edwards to Madison County and dawdled for a peek at those covered bridges. Another candidate was pumping hands in Amana, and that guy with two first names was rumored to be in Clinton.

Instead, I poked around Des Moines, where everyone in every bar and restaurant seemed to be on their Blackberry. I realized I was surrounded by political operatives. I eavesdropped on one conversation at Centro, a posh Italian restaurant popular with the people you see on the evening news, doing stand-ups at the White House.

"We have to monitor our benchmarks," one guy said.

A couple huddled at the next table, discussing their colleagues. "She gets drunk and then returns press calls," the politico cautioned.

(Why don't I get sources like this?)

In Des Moines, you might find Bill Clinton - or any number of current candidates - sitting in the lobby of the Hotel Fort Des Moines. You're also likely to find political types at the bar there, or at the Renaissance Savery Hotel, according to local political junkies. Obama has had events at a sleek new Mexican restaurant, Dos Rios, in the small warehouse district along Court Street.

Obama caught some flak earlier in the campaign for a comment he made about the price of arugula. The critics' implication was Iowans didn't know arugula from Algona. Dos Rios' excellent duck sausage empanadas and ceviche with nopales is evidence that the city is not without its own sophistication. On the other hand, Eric Woolen, state head of Mike Huckabee's campaign, reminded me of how down-home Iowa can be, by recommending a cheaper alternative.

"You can get five coneys for five bucks after 5 p.m. at the Coney Island in the skyway," Woolen said, like a man who works for a candidate who promises not to waste other people's money.

Brushing up against the powerful was fun. Bumping into a reporter from the BBC was interesting. My fantasy of schmoozing with Ann Curry, alas, was not to be.

But I was reminded of the best reason to go to Iowa one day when I stood in the rain and asked someone how far it was to the History Museum.

"About 12 blocks," he said. "I'll give you a ride."

So I got to the museum relatively dry. One of the first quotes I saw on the wall, attributed to journalist David Broder while he was covering the caucuses one year, summed up how I felt about Iowa:

"These people are so straightforward, so uncynical, they are irresistible."

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IF YOU GO:

Planning a political-junkie trip to Iowa takes some quick planning and flexibility. For reasons of security and strategy, candidates usually announce visits only a couple of days in advance.

If you want to see a specific candidate, it's best to check his or her Web site. Otherwise, the Des Moines Register lists all the appearances every day throughout the state (www.dmregister.com; click news, then Iowa Caucus).

As Jan. 3 nears, candidates will likely be clustered around Des Moines and will be going to bigger venues.

HOTELS: You have to make some quick calls to get a hotel room - many are booked tight with candidates, handlers, spin masters and media.

Centrally located hotels include the Des Moines Marriott (1-800-514-4681) and its sister hotel, the Renaissance Savery Hotel (1-800-798-2151; search for both at www.marriott.com).

EATS: Des Moines has grown up. The newest, flashiest restaurant is Dos Rios, which was crowded on a recent Tuesday night. Gorditas made with Neiman Ranch pork, beef ribs in banana leaves. Great margaritas (316 Court Av.; 1-515-282-2995).

Centro is a favorite of visitors; pizza, pasta, steaks and chops (1007 Locust St.; 1- 515-248-1780).

I asked several maitre d's and chefs where they would eat besides their own. The ones that made all lists were:

-Splash Seafood Bar and Grill (303 Locust St.; 1-515-244-5686).

-801 Steak and Chop House (801 Grand Av.; 1-515-288-6000).

-Tursi's Latin King, for old-school Italian (2200 Hubbell Av., 1-515-266-4466).

-Tumea and Sons (1501 SE. First; 1-515-282-7964).

BEYOND THE CANDIDATES: When you are not chasing candidates, the State Historical Museum is very good, and free (600 E. Locust St.).

The Des Moines Art Center has the work of Mexican-born San Francisco artist Enrique Chagoya through Jan. 6 (4700 Grand Av).