The leading campaigns set up shop in the state way back in the spring, giving Iowans the dubious pleasure of being able to assess not only the candidates, but their operations. Often, an Iowa City native remarked, caucus-goers cast their support as much for the person as for their perceptions of a candidate's organization.
On that wisdom, I put on the red snow boots and trekked to the Des Moines headquarters of the top three Democrats to see what I could glean about the people and culture surrounding them.
At the Obama office, a one-story standalone with a coffee shop next door, things were good.
"Feeling good?" a staffer paused to ask a volunteer, who'd just come in from the cold and sunk into one of the folding chairs in the lobby.
"Good, good," said the volunteer.
"Good!"
"You good?"
"I'm good."
"That's good."
Not 10 seconds later, another staffer came hustling through the lobby. "Feeling good?" the volunteer asked her.
"Good! You?"
"Good!"
"Good. Good!"
A giant hand-painted mural of Obama's logo--a stylized sun shining over corn fields--illuminated the backs of their heads. In the lobby, everything seemed to glow.
To be fair, the liveliness of Obama's headquarters can be partly attributed to the fact they're running a canvass today. In the 15 minutes I was there, a dozen volunteers--most of whom seemed to be in their 40s and 50s, and all of them in parkas--tromped in and out with packets and lists. One man collected a sheet for phone banking, and another couple puzzled over a map.
"These are the GOTC headquarters," a young Obama worker explained, pointing to the map. She was wearing a black sweater dress, black stockings, and tall, black snow boots. Her eyeglasses were red. She looked incredibly hip.
"GOTC?" asked the husband.
"Get Out The Vote," said the wife. "That's what they call it, remember? GOTV?"
"Actually," said the Obama girl. "It's Get Out the Caucus. GOTC." She steered them toward the door and then turned smartly on her heel to return to her desk, an island of efficiency in a sea of cheerful chaos.
In contrast, the Edwards campaign was subdued. It's not a main drag, like Obama's, but in a cul-de-sac behind an office park. The building is industrial and smelled like toner. A pair of twentysomething receptionists in jeans and sweaters sat behind a broad counter, juggling the phone and the three or four people who'd come in for some small bits of business.
All around them, the walls were plastered with homemade signs: "Iowa for John + Elizabeth"; "This office was not paid for by lobbyists." The lettering--hand-printed in colored marker on sheets of copier paper--furthered my impression of the lobby as a kind of high school office, staffed by the honor roll and decorated with advertisements for student body president.
If the Edwards headquarters wasn't as hopping as Obama's--in the volunteer room, a single person was bent over the boxes--there was a wonderful sense of tenacity. My favorite sign, made from office supply flip chart paper and written in an awkward hand, listed all the things you could do to help. At the bottom, someone had crossed out "Have a BBQ" and written "Host a coffee." The sign, like the campaign, seemed to have transitioned from one season into another, determined to remain relevant.
As it happens, Hillary Clinton's campaign headquarters is just across the street from Edwards'. The building is similar but the layout is different. Edwards' is set up shotgun style, with offices tucked along a long hallway and an upstairs invisible to the casual visitor. Clinton's is more of a loft, a single floor with lots of space. However, the open vista is blocked first by enormous, 10-by-12-foot official campaign signs, which repeat Hillary for President in a kind of pop art montage, and second by a labyrinth of cubicle walls that obscure all but the feet. From time to time, people emerged from a single door, filing out like ants from an anthill.
What was most striking to me about the Clinton campaign office was the racial diversity of people in it. In Iowa, where 95% of the population is white, the faces in headquarters were all shades. As with the other offices, most were young--20s and early 30s. They were, however, remarkably well-dressed. A trio of young women in candy-colored wool jackets and matching silk scarves chatted with a man in a button-down shirt, who kissed one of the women goodbye on the cheek. She kept her face suspended, expectant.
"Oh right," he said. "European."
He kissed her other cheek and the ladies took off, leaving a trail of perfume.
Unlike the other offices, where I was able to speak to a press secretary, no one from the PR office was available. Instead, a flustered receptionist printed for me the official campaign schedule. She seemed proud to give it to me. The Clinton campaign, after all, is the only one that's had a candidate in the White House before.
"This is hers," the receptionist said, handing me one set of papers. "And this is the President's."