There’s nothing quite like the Iowa State Fair to remind you what “Iowan culture” really means. Naturally, I went with my friend Tommy to do some deep anthropological research, because what better way to study culture than by watching a group of women holler “Haaaarrrr-old!” at the top of their lungs during the husband-calling contest? (Move over, Shakespeare, we’ve got performance art right here in Des Moines.)

Tommy and I actually tried to break it down: What is Iowa’s culture, anyway? Why is what we do as a group of people different from other states? Where the heck did Iowa Nice come from? All important questions that I unfortunately could not answer after my long day at the fair.

Speaking of Iowa nice, I made a new friend–a goat. Not just any goat, mind you, but a goat with enough personality to make you rethink your entire social circle. We locked eyes, shared a moment, and I’m pretty sure it understood me better than half the people I’ve met in college so far. No offense, humans.

The fair isn’t just about hollering and hooves. There’s art, too–and not just the butter cow (though let’s be honest, that cow deserves its own wing in the Iowa Hall of Fame). Paintings, photography, quilts… Iowa creativity shows up in forms you’d never expect, yet it’s so perfect. It’s easy to roll your eyes at a “decorated cake” category until you realize someone’s frosting skills are more advanced than your entire existence.

Of course I checked out the food. Pickle pizza, fried Oreos, funnel cake, scotcheroo shakes, you name it, I considered eating it. Fair food is basically one last cholesterol-filled hug before summer lets go.

That brings me to the real kicker: this was my last hurrah of the summer. The day after the fair, I packed up for college. The whole time, between bites of fried cheese curds and watching Tommy nearly get emotionally moved by a chainsaw woodcarving, I kept thinking: this is Iowa. Loud, quirky, greasy, and weirdly beautiful.

As I stood there with powdered sugar on my shirt and goat hair still clinging to my shoes, I felt it. The fair wasn’t just a day out. It was a send-off. A reminder of home before I chase whatever’s next. And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Until my next day at the fair, I’m Just Jonathan.