Washington, D.C. is a city of contradictions. Power and protest, polished halls and shadowy backrooms, marble memorials and the ghosts that still linger in their cracks. It’s a place that demands you walk—through history, through stories, through the beating heart of what America pretends to be and what it actually is.

The air in Austin isn’t just hot—it clings to you, thick and damp, wrapping around you like an old friend who doesn’t know when to let go. It smells of mesquite smoke, spilled beer, and whatever magic is cooking in the nearest food truck. Austin doesn’t just welcome you—it pulls you in, hands you a drink, and dares you to keep up.

New York isn’t just a city—it’s a living, breathing entity. It hums, pulses, roars. It welcomes you with open arms and then dares you to keep up. The sidewalks are its veins, pumping life into every corner, from the steel towers of Midtown to the cobbled streets of the West Village. There’s an energy here, electric and unrelenting, that makes you believe—no, insist—that anything is possible. Because in New York, if you can make it here, you really can make it anywhere.

Charleston, South Carolina. A city where the old and the new dance together in a slow, deliberate waltz, set to the soundtrack of cicadas and distant jazz. The air is thick with history, humidity, and the scent of something delicious frying in butter.