Eileen Call

✍️ Full About You

I’m Eileen Call, and I’ve lived in the United States my entire life.

That doesn’t mean I know America.

Actually, I think that’s exactly the trap.

When somewhere becomes familiar, we stop looking at it.

I grew up in Des Moines, Iowa, which means I’ve heard flyover country enough times to last several lifetimes.

Fly over it if you want.

You’ll miss quite a lot.

You’ll miss the family restaurant that’s been serving the same pie for fifty years. The courthouse square. The immigrant-owned grocery store. The state fair tradition three generations argue about. The mural nobody puts in a tourism brochure. The tiny museum staffed by somebody who can tell you exactly why the railroad used to run there.

You’ll miss people.

That’s eventually what became my travel philosophy:

There’s no such thing as a flyover state, just stories we haven’t heard yet.

I started writing things down in spiral notebooks.

Nothing sophisticated.

Motel weirdness.

Road construction.

Pie.

Lots of pie.

Things people said.

Signs I thought were funny.

Songs on the radio.

Museums I nearly drove past.

Eventually I realized those weren’t notes surrounding the travel story.

They were the travel story.

Now I live in Minneapolis.

I love being in the Upper Midwest because it keeps me geographically honest.

The Mississippi runs through my city. Winter means business. Baseball returns like a civic holiday. You can find incredible music, food, art and neighbourhood stories without first obtaining permission from somebody on a coast to call them interesting.

And if I want to go somewhere?

There’s a highway.

I’ll take the scenic route.

Obviously.

My favorite American places aren’t necessarily my favorite because they’re beautiful.

Death Valley is extraordinary.

Zion can stop you in your tracks.

New York can make you feel electrically awake.

New Orleans can change the way you hear a street.

But then there’s a chair sitting outside a laundromat.

I photograph those.

My ongoing project is called “Chairs Left Outside.”

Porches. Sidewalks. Storefronts. Alleys. Yards.

An empty chair tells you somebody belongs there even when you can’t see them.

I never trespass.

And I don’t photograph somebody’s hardship because it makes an interesting composition.

There’s a difference between noticing people and using them as scenery.

I’ve learned that distinction matters in travel writing too.

Being American doesn’t give me authority over every American story.

There are Indigenous nations whose stories belong first to their communities.

There are Black histories I need to approach with research and humility.

Border communities aren’t metaphors.

Rural poverty isn’t picturesque.

Immigrant neighbourhoods aren’t exotic attractions.

Hawai‘i isn’t a stage set.

Everywhere I’m writing about, somebody is already home.

That’s why I’m increasingly asking:

What are people proud of here?

What do outsiders get wrong?

Where do people actually gather?

Who gets left out of the usual story?

Can an ordinary person afford what I’m recommending?

And:

What happens here after we leave?

That doesn’t mean I’ve become terribly serious.

Please.

I will absolutely drive twenty-seven unnecessary miles because somebody told me there’s a candy shop selling something I’ve never tried.

Regional candy is geography you can eat.

I will find the independent bookstore.

I will investigate the allegedly haunted hotel.

I’ll catch a baseball game.

I’ll go to the state fair.

I’ll wear a scarf even when the weather has clearly determined that a scarf is unnecessary.

And I’ll send myself a postcard.

I’ve done that for years.

I don’t write profound things on them.

Usually it’s something like:

Woman at diner says cherry, not apple. She was correct.

Or:

Air smelled like rain and pine.

Or:

Never trust GPS when Linda at the gas station has already given you directions.

Then the postcard arrives home a week later.

For a moment, I’m back there.

That’s what I’m chasing.

Not destinations.

Recognition.

That strange instant when somewhere you’ve never been becomes real enough to matter.

America is enormous, contradictory, beautiful, painful, ridiculous, inventive, complicated and unfinished.

I don’t want to turn it into a checklist.

I want to keep listening.

My catchphrase remains:

“The story’s already there, you just have to listen for it.”

My north star remains:

“Write it gently. Travel it slowly. Make space for the full picture.”

And I’ve added one more rule:

“Familiar doesn’t mean fully known.”

Because after spending my entire life in this country, I’m still finding places that surprise me.

Sometimes they’re national parks.

Sometimes they’re cities.

Sometimes they’re somewhere nobody told me to stop.

Those might be my favorites.

Now get in.

I found a scenic route, an independent bookstore and something called World’s Largest Ball of Popcorn.

We’re investigating. 🚙📸🍿