Des Moines is lovely. Who knew? Although I will allow that my hotel may be warping my perception. I am love with my hotel, the Hotel Fort Des Moines. I mean, check out the elevators:

I’m told this place is the “Democratic hotel” in town—owned by a prominent Democrat, patronized by Democratic candidates. It’s crawling with Democratic aides in town for the debate. Shortly after I arrived, I rode the elevator with Mandy Grunwald and two other Clinton campaign staffers. The elevator also had a mess of kids in it, so there was no striking up a conversation over the kids’ commotion. But from across the elevator I could hear the Clinton people talking about “She”—”She’s still 10 minutes out,” “She’ll probably want to get dinner.” A brush with Hillaryland in a beautiful retro elevator. Not bad.

I dropped my stuff in my room (if you like the elevator, you’ll love the rooms, that’s all I’m saying) and headed to Drake University…

…to pick up my credentials and, once that was done, hit the “media reception,” which I presumed, correctly, would be a cocktail party.

But honestly, that plate of shrimp was the most interesting thing at the party. On the way in, I received about four pages of bio on George Stephanopolous, the host of tomorrow’s debate, but there was no sign of him, or anyone remotely D.C. or New York, at the media reception. Granted, I was quite late because of when my plane got in. But by the time I arrived it was a lot of Drake students doing what resourceful college students do—weaseling their way into a fancy reception for some free booze and finger food. So back to the hotel.

I waited for a cab in front of this vision of small-city cuteness.

And then (can you tell?) I went and got a drink and some food. At Centro, which is apparently where all the politicos ended up. You can tell them by their black. Black slacks, black suits, a sharper, slicker black than people in Des Moines seem to be wearing. There was some sherry sipping and much Blackberry tapping. There was also a lot of silver hair, the kind of silver hair that makes me think of the northeast—perfectly shampooed, perfectly placed, almost metallic, a mark of a certain type of elegantly-aging intellectual. (In Seattle, Bill Sherman gets somewhat close to the kind of silver hair I’m talking about.)

I’m sorry, but I didn’t overhear anything that interesting at Centro. However, The Note tells me tomorrow may be very interesting.