Transcription
What if I told you there are parts of America where you can ditch taxes, ditch winter, and legally vanish into a tropical paradise without giving up your US citizenship or your Costco card? These places have American flags, American laws, and zero interest in your 9 to 5.
Welcome to the forgotten US territories, where the goats outnumber the people, the internet is optional, and the only traffic jam involves a chicken, a moped, and someone selling mangoes out of a cooler. And yes, you can move there right now. Let's get into it before Congress remembers they exist.
Before we pack our emotional baggage and head to paradise, go ahead and like this video because freedom is cool, but algorithmic validation is cooler. And hit subscribe unless you want to miss out on more hidden corners of America where the chickens are allowed, the laws are loose, and the nearest Starbucks is 2,000 miles away. Support the channel or I'm sending you to Guam without sunscreen. Let's go.
You're sick of it. The traffic, the taxes, the neighbor who insists on using a leaf blower at 6:00 a.m. You've had enough of tipping screens that ask you for 25% after handing you a muffin. And let's not even talk about snow. You want out, but not all the way out. You're not trying to disappear into the jungle or learn a new currency. You just want sun, peace, and maybe a few fewer laws breathing down your neck.
Enter the US Virgin Islands, the ultimate American getaway that no one talks about unless they're on a cruise or dodging alimony. There are three main islands: St. Thomas, St. John, and St. Croix, and a bonus island called Water Island, which sounds like someone gave up while naming things. They're all US territories, which means they're legally American, but spiritually on vacation. You can live there as a US citizen. No passport, no paperwork, and absolutely no need to explain your life choices to an embassy clerk with a rubber stamp and judgmental eyebrows.
St. Thomas is the party one. It's got shopping, cruise ports, and enough frozen cocktails to fuel a midlife crisis. Tourists flood in like it's a theme park with no closing hours, and locals have mastered the art of pretending not to notice.
St. John is all national park, hiking trails, and quiet beaches. It's the kind of place where people say things like, "Just breathe," and the Wi-Fi isn't strong, but the connection to nature is, which is a poetic way of saying, "Don't expect to stream Netflix. Expect to meet someone who makes their own kombucha and has very strong opinions about coconuts."
Then there's St. Croix. Bigger, quieter, a little weirder. It's got history, art, and that easygoing vibe that says, "I moved here to escape something, and now I just paint driftwood and mind my own business." Living here is basically island life with a US safety net. You still get your mail. You still use the dollar. Your iPhone still works unless the power's out, which happens often enough that people just shrug and grab a drink. Power outages aren't emergencies. They're suggestions to take a nap.
Now, let's talk cost. You might think, "Ah, tropical paradise must be cheap." No, no, it is not. Everything is imported. That means your groceries cost more, your gas costs more, and if you want avocado toast, it may require a small loan or a barter system involving mangoes. But if you can let go of your Whole Foods habits and embrace roadside fruit stands and local fish, you'll survive happily.
And then there's time, or as locals call it, island time, which is a gentle, smiling way of saying nothing happens when it's supposed to. A tennis appointment could start at 10:45 or Thursday. If you're the kind of person who gets angry when someone's 5 minutes late, this place will either break you or heal you.
Now, the big win: no state income tax. Let that marinate. No state tax. You still pay federal because the government never forgets to collect, but other than that, you're keeping more of your money. You may spend it on sunscreen and rum, but hey, that's your business.
The US Virgin Islands aren't for everyone. You have to be okay with humidity, mosquitoes, and a certain level of unpredictability that mainland life smooths over. But you also get the kind of freedom you can't buy in a big city. No snow, no commute, no pretending to care about quarterly performance reviews. Just ocean, sunshine, and enough rum to forget your area code. And the best part, you didn't even need to flee the country.
Guam is the answer to the question no one knew they were asking: Can I live on a tropical island, stay in the US, and still feel like I've somehow left Earth? Yes. Yes, you can. And Guam is that place. It's a US territory just like Puerto Rico or the Virgin Islands, but in the Pacific, halfway between Hawaii and the Philippines, which means it's basically on the opposite side of the planet from anything you've ever scheduled on time. It's tomorrow there, literally. If you move to Guam, you'll be in the future. You'll be texting your friends back home while they're still brushing their teeth yesterday.
Now, let's address the elephant in the room. Or rather, the confused American at the airport. Yes, Guam is American. Yes, you can move there. No, you don't need a passport. Yes, they take US dollars. No, it's not part of Japan now. Carl, please stop saying that.
Living in Guam is like living inside a government secret. You have all the rights of a US citizen. Well, most of the rights. You can't vote for president, which is kind of a plus these days. But you can still receive Social Security, file taxes, and order a Costco shipment like a true patriot. There's even a US military presence so strong you might wake up to fighter jets and think you accidentally enlisted.
The culture is a fascinating mix of Chamorro heritage, American bureaucracy, Filipino cuisine, and a touch of "how did I end up here?" It's got beaches, jungles, and the kind of sunsets that make you forget your credit score. People are warm, generous, and perpetually confused when mainlanders show up acting like they've just discovered Atlantis.
But let's not pretend it's all paradise. Guam is beautiful. Yes, but also hot. Really hot. The kind of humid that makes your kneecaps sweat. And then there's the occasional typhoon, 'cause apparently paradise needs boss fights. Oh, and good luck finding your favorite brand of almond milk. Supplies get shipped in from far away, so grocery stores sometimes look like post-apocalyptic bingo halls. If you're picky, Guam will teach you the art of letting go, or how to make pesto out of weeds and vibes.
The roads are paved. The Wi-Fi is brave. The customer service is passionate, but not in a rush. Think of it as character development. If you came here with Type A energy, don't worry. It'll dissolve within a month and be replaced with flip-flops and an "eh, maybe later" attitude.
Now, the important stuff: freedom. Guam is weirdly free. People don't bother you. There's a laid-back rhythm that says, "You do you, just don't be annoying about it." Want to start a business? Go ahead. Want to live off-grid with some solar panels and a dog named Captain Coconut? No one's stopping you. Want to vanish into the jungle and reemerge wearing nothing but a machete and a deep sense of inner peace? Technically, that's frowned upon, but not impossible.
And taxes? Still federal. No state income tax here either because Guam isn't a state. It's in a strange legal middle ground where you pay, but you don't always get representation. Sort of like being in a relationship with someone who lives in another time zone and only texts when it's convenient.
Here's the thing: Most Americans don't move to Guam on purpose. They get stationed there, transferred there, or washed ashore during a life crisis. But the ones who stay, they figure it out. They find the quiet, the calm, the strange mix of freedom and forgottenness that makes Guam one of the last places where you can live outside the system and inside the country. It's far, it's weird, it's hot, and it's free in that beautifully chaotic way that only a tropical US territory surrounded by nothing but ocean can be. Just don't ask for two-day shipping.
Puerto Rico is technically part of the United States, but it's also not quite. It's like that one cousin at family gatherings who shows up in Gucci slides, brings their own speaker, and insists they're part of the family, but on their own journey right now. And honestly, they're thriving.
So, here's what you need to know. Puerto Rico is a US territory. It has stunning beaches, rainforests, historic cities, and enough stray cats to start a Disney musical. You don't need a passport to go there. You don't need to exchange currency. You don't even need to speak Spanish fluently. Though, knowing the difference between "perro" (dog) and "culo" (butt) might save you from some awkward conversations.
Living there as a mainland American feels like someone turned the US dial down to seven and added coconut trees. You'll see Walgreens, KFC, and billboards for car insurance, all next to pastel-colored colonial buildings, and people blasting salsa at 8:00 a.m. while drinking coffee so strong it could wake the dead and make them dance. And oh yes, the coffee. You haven't truly lived until you've had Puerto Rican coffee brewed by someone's aunt who won't give you the recipe, but insists it's "just a little bit of love and suffering."
Now, Puerto Rico has one foot in and one foot out of American governance. They're US citizens. They serve in the military, but they can't vote for president. Imagine paying taxes and not getting a say in who runs the place. That's like buying tickets to a concert and being told you can't request songs because you're technically in the parking lot.
Speaking of taxes, Puerto Rico plays by some interesting rules. Residents don't pay federal income tax on income earned on the island. Which is why a suspicious number of tech bros, crypto bros, and people who say words like "disruptive" unironically have started showing up in flip-flops, buying beachfront condos, and launching LLCs named things like "Island Synergy." There's even an incentive program called Act 60, which basically tells wealthy people, "Come here, pay less, pretend you care about our economy." It's controversial. It's complicated. And yes, it's working for some people, mainly the ones who already have a yacht, or at least know someone named Chad who does.
But if you're not rich and just want to live freer, Puerto Rico still delivers. You can live by the beach, eat mofongo until your cholesterol throws in the towel, and enjoy a lifestyle where people actually talk to their neighbors. Music is always playing, and time is more of a concept than a rule.
It's also not all palm trees and piña coladas. Infrastructure can be dramatic. Power outages are common, especially during hurricane season. The roads occasionally look like a Mario Kart map, and the bureaucracy is held together by tape, good intentions, and people named Gladys who work at the municipal office and know everything. Still, the sense of community here is unreal. People look out for each other. They help when storms hit. They share food without asking. It's the kind of place where your neighbor will offer you a plate of arroz con gandules and then gently judge your life choices over coffee.
Freedom in Puerto Rico looks like this: You can work remote, live cheapish, and still be under the US umbrella. You can start a business with fewer hoops to jump through than most places. You can live on a mountaintop, in a surf town, or in a centuries-old city with cobblestone streets and pigeons with strong political opinions. And best of all, you can live in a place where people dance in the street, roast whole pigs at Christmas, and celebrate life like it's a sport – a sweaty, loud, delicious sport. So, if you want to escape the mainland, but still keep your US rights, your Amazon account, and your ability to explain your address without needing international shipping, you might just find your freedom on an island where even the politics dance a little.
American Samoa, the place that makes the US Virgin Islands look like Vegas and Guam look like Times Square. This is where you go when you want to fall off the map, live somewhere absolutely stunning, and confuse every single person who asks, "Wait, is that in America?" Yes, it is. Barely. But legally, yes.
American Samoa is the only US territory south of the equator, which means not only are you far from everything, you're also upside down. Scientifically questionable, but emotionally accurate. It's made up of five volcanic islands and two coral atolls, all floating peacefully in the middle of the South Pacific, surrounded by more ocean than your last six vacations combined.
Here's the twist: People here are US nationals, not full citizens. That means they can live and work in the US without a visa. But if they want to vote in federal elections or run for president, which, to be fair, most people don't, they have to apply for full citizenship. It's a bureaucratic limbo, but most locals are too busy fishing, singing, or going to church five times a week to really dwell on it.
If Guam feels like America forgot it was there, American Samoa feels like America misplaced it under a pile of old maps and only remembers it exists when it needs to update the weather app. But the place itself, absolutely magical. Mountains that look like they were designed by someone trying to win a "most dramatic landscape" contest. Water so clear you can see your reflection and your regrets. And a culture so deeply rooted in family, respect, and tradition that showing up without greeting someone properly is considered a felony. Not legally, but socially. You're done.
The vibe here is very slow. Not like "island time" slow, more like "we'll get to it after the church choir finishes, the pigs are fed, and the tide agrees" slow. You don't move to American Samoa for convenience. You move there to escape every single notification you've ever received. There's one main road, one McDonald's, one flight in and out on most days. Internet available theoretically. Amazon Prime not a thing. 2-day shipping takes two weeks, guessing.
But what you lose in speed, you gain in freedom. No one cares what car you drive. No one's checking your outfit. If you want to wear a lava lava, traditional skirt, and sandals to the store, that's not just acceptable, it's recommended. Local kids still play outside. Neighbors still wave. Life is simple, and that's the point. Need a break from civilization? This is your place. Want to live where people respect elders more than influencers and measure success in how many relatives show up to your barbecue? You found it. Want to hide from the IRS? Okay, don't do that. But you could.
In theory, taxes here are handled locally, not by the IRS, which sounds like freedom until you realize their system is somehow both simpler and more confusing. But hey, you're not moving to American Samoa to do aggressive financial planning. You're moving here because you want to wake up to roosters, take a nap after lunch, and measure time in coconuts.
It's not for everyone. It's quiet, remote, and sometimes things just don't work. But if your dream is to live in a place where the mountains are tall, the people are kind, and the concept of urgency has been humanely retired, then welcome to the last place in America where no one's trying to sell you anything except maybe fish. Lots of fish.
Now we arrive at the final frontier of forgotten freedom: The Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands, also known as the CNMI, also known as, "Wait, what part of America is that?" If the US territories were siblings, Puerto Rico is the lively one who throws great parties. Guam's the one in the military with a gym addiction. And the Northern Marianas? The quiet genius living rent-free in paradise and not telling anyone about it.
First things first, yes, they're part of the US. You don't need a passport. You don't need to convert your dollars. You can bring your dog, your laptop, and your inability to pronounce Saipan. It's "Sai-pan," not "Sa-pon," please. The CNMI is made up of 14 islands, though most people only live on Saipan, Tinian, and Rota. The rest are just chilling in the Pacific, probably enjoying the silence. Saipan is the biggest, Tinian is the sleepiest, and Rota is the one that makes you question if the rest of the world ever actually existed.
Now, before you get too excited, let's talk about the Wi-Fi. It exists, kind of. On a good day, you can check your email. On a bad day, a pigeon with a note tied to its leg might actually be faster. So, if you're planning to live off-grid but still run a startup from your hammock, adjust your expectations, or buy a very long Ethernet cable.
But here's the fun part: This place has freedom energy. Not the performative kind where people shout about liberty while standing in line at Walmart. No, this is the quiet, beautiful kind. No traffic, no rush, no HOA breathing down your neck about your lawn. You can live simply, sleep with your windows open, and wake up to the sound of actual nature, not your upstairs neighbor doing early morning Zumba.
And the landscape, don't get me started. Mountains, cliffs, coral reefs, ruins, beaches that are so absurdly perfect you'll think someone's running a very elaborate Truman Show scenario just for you. It's all right there. No entrance fee required.
The CNMI also has one of the lowest crime rates in all of America. Why? Maybe it's because everyone knows each other. Maybe it's because no one wants to run from the law when there's only one highway. Or maybe it's because life here is just too chill to commit felonies.
Culturally, it's a blend of Chamorro and Carolinian traditions mixed with influences from Japan, the Philippines, and the US. Kind of like if a history textbook and a travel blog had a baby. You'll go to a fiesta and eat chicken cooked six different ways, then see a mural about the Battle of Saipan right next to a shaved ice stand. It's weird. It's beautiful. It works.
Now, let's talk money. Is it cheap? Not really. Is it expensive? Also, not really. It's in that weird middle ground where rent might be low, but a jar of peanut butter costs more than your dignity. Everything has to be shipped in, and sometimes that ship takes its sweet time. That means you'll learn to live with what's available, which, to be honest, is kind of the secret to happiness anyway.
And the taxes, oh baby. You still pay US federal taxes, you know, but not to the IRS. You pay them to the CNMI government, which then sends the money to the US Treasury. It's a bizarre love triangle that somehow works. The upside: people who know how to work the system and probably own six LLCs and a suspiciously expensive watch come here for serious tax breaks. You, however, can come for the part where no one asks why you haven't worn shoes in a week.
So, who lives here? Locals who've been here forever, mainlanders who came for a visit and forgot to leave, and a few lucky souls who just woke up one day and said, "What if I stopped pretending to like cold weather and meetings?"
All right, now that you know how to vanish into America's forgotten tropical back rooms, it's time to level up. Click on the next video where we dive into the five states where off-grid living is practically free. Yes, actual US states where you can build a cabin, grow some potatoes, and legally ignore everyone, including your HOA and probably your in-laws. Go on, click it. Freedom's not going to watch itself.
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