Washington D.C.

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.

Start where most tourists do, on the National Mall. But do it differently. Walk slow. Let the gravity of history pull you in. Lincoln, looking down at you, judgmental but hopeful. The Vietnam Memorial, the weight of names pressing on your soul. The Washington Monument, an obelisk so tall and defiant. There’s a rhythm here, the shuffle of sneakers, the murmured tours, the distant chatter of protesters reminding you democracy is never done.

Duck into the museums. Smithsonian, of course, because where else can you see the Hope Diamond and a taxidermy sloth in the same afternoon? But don’t just check the boxes. Feel the weight of the past. The air is different in this place. History isn’t just something behind glass—it’s in the walls, in the breath of the people walking beside you.

If you’re lucky enough to be here in spring, the cherry blossoms will be showing off, that brief, beautiful spectacle where the city smells like new life and tourists clog every sidewalk for the perfect selfie. Fight through it. Find a bench by the Tidal Basin. Watch the petals drift like snow. Order a black coffee and let the moment sit with you. D.C. can be beautiful, when it wants to be.

But let’s talk about food, because even revolutionaries and politicians have to eat. You want a burger? You go to the City Tap House, just by the Convention Center. This isn’t your sad, gray, overcooked conference-center fare. This is a burger that fights back—charred, juicy, unapologetic. You’ll want the diner fries, salty and perfect. Maybe a whiskey, neat, because this is a city built on deals made over drinks.

But the real finds? They’re in the small places, the joints tucked into unassuming streets. A bowl of half-smoke at Ben’s Chili Bowl, where the counter still hums with stories. A family-run Ethiopian spot in Adams Morgan, injera soaking up spiced, slow-cooked perfection. A nameless, hole-in-the-wall pupuseria where the woman behind the counter doesn’t need your order—she already knows what you need.

D.C. isn’t just the capital of a nation; it’s a city with a pulse. It’s where history seeps into your skin, where every street has a story, and where, if you know where to look, the best meals are waiting for you. So walk. Eat. Listen. The city will show you what it’s made of—if you’re paying attention.