The Forgotten American Territories Where You Can Live Free

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 to5. 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

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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 m 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. Craw, 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. Craw. 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. 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 shamorro

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, cuz 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 paved. The Wi-Fi brave. The

customer service 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

pero dog, and pero 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-coled

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 LLC's

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 mafongo 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 pina 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 Glattis 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 arosong ganduls 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 Time 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

atoles, 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 tries two week 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 SMO 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 Maran

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 rentree 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

Suspan, not Sapon, please. The CNMI is

made up of 14 islands, though most

people only live on Saipan, Tinian, and

Rotor. The rest are just chilling in the

Pacific, probably enjoying the silence.

Saipan is the biggest, Tinian is the

sleepiest, and Rot 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-rid 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 Span 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 LLC's 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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