As I flew from Los Angeles to Saint Louis, I was reminded of my initial image of the Midwest: four hours flying with nothing remotely spectacular to see. The circular crop fields slowly moving exactly one cruising altitude below me promised me nothing to look forward to, but a lot of corn. Even the airport was the least interesting of all the airports I had seen on my travels to Saint Louis. Not too impressed, I walked out of the airport, only to get hit in the face by Missouri’s notorious summer climate. Now that was impressing.
In the week before my arrival, I had been to two different locations, with two different climates. One was Dublin, which was very humid (=rainy). The other was California; dry and hot, although every now and then a cool breeze softened the most intense warmth. Those two climates combined were no training for the humid hell that Missouri provided. The humidity was so high at the moment I arrived, I could feel it when breathing. Every breath I took reminded me of a sauna. Even worse: it was hotter than in California too. The combination immediately made me sweat. By the time I got to the car, I was soaking wet and already freed from scepticism. I would be for the coming month.