Discovering the Magic of Washington, D.C.: A Personal Journey Through History, Culture, and Wonder

There’s something in D.C. that lifts me the moment I arrive. I never know if it’s the density of history or the way the streets move, but the city loosens something in me. I feel lighter there, almost boyish, as if curiosity rises faster than thought. Each time I walk those streets, I step back into a version of myself I didn’t realize I’d misplaced.

That feeling started early. My first visit was the summer between eighth and ninth grade, a class trip that paired D.C. with New York. My first real kiss happened on the plane, somewhere above Virginia, with the girl I was certain I’d spend my life with. Years later, my parents kept an apartment in Pentagon City, and I visited them there more often than I did at home. The city settled into me slowly, until it felt like a second skin.

Those years layered themselves into the place. Fourth of July on the Mall. The Force Awakens at the Air & Space IMAX. Cat Stevens and Ozzy Osbourne dueling Peace Train and Crazy Train in front of the Capitol. I walked the same streets through different ages of my life, carrying different worries, different ambitions, and each time the city offered the same thing: a kind of emotional reprieve. A lightness that didn’t need explanation.

My earliest memory there is sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial with Syd and our friends. Vendors crowded the walkway, their plastic souvenirs blocking the view of the Reflecting Pool, but even that couldn’t dull the feeling of being held inside something larger than myself. The weight of history pressed in, not as a burden but as a presence. That trip shaped the outline of who I wanted to become, even if I didn’t understand it then.

That sense of anticipation carried into the Fourth of July. I grew up in Boerne, Texas, where the fireworks show at the county fairgrounds was the highlight of every summer. I’d seen New York’s display too, but I wanted to know what the capital could do. When I finally made it to the Mall for the holiday, the place was swarming. Vendors selling alien heads, inflatable Uncle Sams, spinning toys that caught the light. A stage rose in front of the Capitol. Smokey Robinson and Kenny Loggins played. I drifted toward the Washington Monument and stayed there until the fireworks began behind the Lincoln Memorial. I ended up near the World War II Memorial, where I took one of my favorite photos: the silhouette of the memorial against the fading firework glow, smoke scattering the light into something soft and imperfect. Boerne’s show had always been good. D.C.’s felt like the thing I’d been waiting for.

The Air & Space Museum became its own anchor. I can still picture the Wright Flyer’s private room, the Spirit of St. Louis suspended above the floor, the Bell X‑1, the SR‑71 Blackbird. The Enterprise prop from the original Star Trek sits behind glass. The IMAX usually runs documentaries, but I happened to be there the week Star Wars: The Force Awakens opened. A friend of my dad’s, a lobbyist on the Hill, got us tickets. When the opening crawl appeared and John Williams’ score filled the room, I felt goosebumps rise along my arms. I’m a die‑hard fan, but I’d grown up with the movies. Abrams brought something back to them. Seeing that film in that theatre felt like being inside a moment I didn’t want to end.

That same pull brought me back for the Rally to Restore Sanity. Jon Stewart announced it while I was living in New York, and Ariana Huffington offered buses for anyone who wanted to go. I boarded one before dawn. We arrived late, but I made it. Some didn’t. The bus dropped us a few blocks from the Capitol, and we walked the rest. More than 250,000 people filled the Mall. Sheryl Crow, Sam Waterston, The Roots, John Legend, Jeff Tweedy. And then Cat Stevens. I didn’t expect him. He started Peace Train, the crowd erupting, and then Colbert walked out and cut him off. I felt a flash of anger—something sharp and immediate—until Ozzy Osbourne stormed the stage, shouting “All aboard!” and launched into Crazy Train. The two of them trading songs felt impossible, like a moment the city had conjured to remind us it could.

All of this folds into why D.C. never feels entirely real to me. The city moves like a film set, a place slightly outside of time. When I’m there, I’m not worried about anything. I’m just walking, just present, carried by the rhythm of the place. Even the escalators feel like part of that rhythm. If you’ve lived in a major city, you know the rule—stand on the right, walk on the left—and D.C. seems to have more escalators than anywhere else. That small detail, that quiet insistence on movement, reminds me of everything I love about the city. D.C. is a playground. A place I return to whenever I can.