Check off your shopping list with these top best grocery delivery sites that service Manila, Philippines! (Fresh produce, meat, drinks, etc.)
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Discover the best hotels in Dubai, from mid-range gems to luxury stays. Enjoy prime locations, top amenities, and unforgettable experiences!
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Running out of gift ideas? Not enough time to go shopping? Here are the top 20 online shopping sites in the Philippines to help you out!
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Make your South Korea travel dreams come true and get a single or multiple South Korean visa in Manila, Philippines!
The post Korean Visa Application Requirements for Filipino Tourists in Manila, Philippines (Single / Multiple Entry) appeared first on I am Aileen.
Make the most of your Cambodia Holidays with this list of top things to do complete with the best travel tips!
The post Cambodia Holidays: The Right Way — The When, Where, and How of South East Asia’s Treasure appeared first on I am Aileen.
Increase your chances of getting that approval — here are the 4 topmost important visa application tips to remember when you're applying!
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Here's why you should put a Mekong River Cruise high up on your bucket list for your upcoming Asia adventures!
The post Elegance on the Water: The Ultimate Mekong River Cruise Experience for the Discerning Traveler appeared first on I am Aileen.
Explore the best hotels in Cebu — from luxurious five-star resorts, cozy boutique stays, to budget-friendly hostels!
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Learn to claim EU261 compensation for flight disruptions like delays, cancellations, downgrades, or denied boarding!
The post EU261 Compensation: Your Essential Guide on European Flight Delays or Cancellations appeared first on I am Aileen.
Find out the BEST and safest countries for solo female travelers to go on adventures to — as well as the 5 most dangerous destinations!
The post 20 Safest Countries for Solo Female Travelers: The Best Trip Destinations in the World (& The 5 Worst!) appeared first on I am Aileen.
The post The Life and Wanderings<br> of Chef Andy Ricker appeared first on Roads & Kingdoms.
Documentary photographer Cengiz Yar discusses his nine-year project documenting Mosul and the so-called war on terror's long-term effect on the northern Iraqi city
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The post Matt Goulding on “Omnivore,” His Inventive New Show with René Redzepi appeared first on Roads & Kingdoms.
The beer is cheap and the larb is fresh, but Chiang Rai is more than all that. These 10 bits of local wisdom will help get you started.
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The post How Vietnam Eats Today<br> Q&A with Daniel Nguyen appeared first on Roads & Kingdoms.
In Tanzania, NovFeed is transforming the country’s compost into a source of cheap and nutritious feed for farmed fish. NovFeed is a finalist for the 2024 Food Planet Prize.
The post NovFeed: Turning Fruit into Fish appeared first on Roads & Kingdoms.
In Bangladesh, Pumpkin Plus transforms rural lives through the innovative technology of growing crops on sandbars. They are a finalist for the 2024 Food Planet Prize.
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Vermont’s Rich Earth Institute is looking to an unusual alternative to industrial fertilizer: human urine. They are a finalist for the 2024 Food Planet Prize.
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Could an all-natural steam seed treatment replace mainstream agricultural chemical treatments? ThermoSeed, a finalist for the 2024 Food Planet Prize, thinks so.
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Transfarmation is an organization helping former factory farmers move from debt-laden, environmentally damaging practices toward a sustainable future. Transfarmation is a finalist for the 2024 Food Planet Prize.
The post Transfarmation: From factory farm to sustainable enterprise appeared first on Roads & Kingdoms.
In a small dry corner of England, Aquagrain is creating a super-absorbent biodegradable hydrogel that could help crops grow in degraded lands. Aquagrain is a finalist for the 2024 Food Planet Prize.
The post Aquagrain: New Life for Poor Soil appeared first on Roads & Kingdoms.
Food accounts for 13% of cities’ carbon emissions every year. But a small league of C40 Good Food Cities, from New York to Quezon City, is hoping to change that. C40 is a finalist for the 2024 Food Planet Prize.
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The post The Right Gear, the Right Moment: Q&A with Photographer Beatriz Janer appeared first on Roads & Kingdoms.
The geopolitical struggle between China and the Philippines has strangled Filipino fishermen’s access to some of their richest fishing grounds
The post Netted by Politics:<BR> a Fisherman’s Dilemma in the South China Sea appeared first on Roads & Kingdoms.
Mestiza de Indias is an innovative, Maya-inspired regenerative farm in the middle of a region threatened by mass tourism and overdevelopment. Its founder has a lot to say about why food matters.
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The post A Memoirist in Mérida: <br> Q&A with Jeremiah Tower appeared first on Roads & Kingdoms.
On Spain's Asturian coast, in the small fishing town of Puerto de Vega, on Plaza Cupido—Cupid Square—a self-taught cook writes culinary love letters to the Cantabrian Sea.
The post The Taste of Being Thrown Around by the Sea: Q&A with chef Mari Fernandez appeared first on Roads & Kingdoms.
The Toothpick Company turns fungi into bioherbicide to fight Striga, a devastating “master weed” that has devastated an estimated 40 million farms in Africa.
The post In Kenya, Using Fungi to Fight a War on Weeds appeared first on Roads & Kingdoms.
In Southeast Asia, the Protein Challenge is aiming for nothing less than a total transformation of regional food systems. The solution? Empowering and uniting the protein system’s various and diverse actors to create change from within.
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Monarch Tractor has recently launched its first line of electric tractors with its groundbreaking MK-V model – the world’s first full-electric, driver-optional, data-collecting smart tractor. Its CEO hopes the company is going to revolutionize the future of farming.
The post Reinventing the Wheel appeared first on Roads & Kingdoms.
Australian start-up Loam is using fungi to help crops capture carbon in the soil—and keep it there. It could be a game-changer for farmers and the fight against climate change.
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Scientists agree that global agriculture is losing crucial diversity in its plants, animals and microorganisms. But you can’t fix a problem that you can’t measure properly. That’s where the Agrobiodiversity Index comes in.
The post Bioversity International: Making the Invisible Visible appeared first on Roads & Kingdoms.
A team of chefs and scientists in southern Spain are trying to cultivate an edible sea grain for the first time. Can Aponiente’s “sea pantry” fight global food insecurity and be used for conservation purposes?
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Food providers—large-scale companies that mass-produce meals for institutions like hospitals and schools—serve billions of meals annually in the United States. Despite their size, there hasn’t been nearly enough focus on how to cut their greenhouse emissions. Enter Coolfood, a one-stop solution to facilitate plant-forward, climate-friendly eating.
The post Serving Climate-Friendly Meals, One Student at a Time appeared first on Roads & Kingdoms.
Last Updated on September 12, 2024 by Audrey Scott Active sustainability communications should be an integral part of any sustainable tourism journey, yet it is often seen as an afterthought instead of integrated into all marketing and communications. This is ... Continue Reading
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Last Updated on March 11, 2024 by Audrey Scott The 2024 International Women’s Day theme is Inspire Inclusion, a call to action “to break down barriers, challenge stereotypes, and create environments where all women are valued and respected.” While much ... Continue Reading
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Last Updated on February 4, 2024 by Audrey Scott While many cities in Germany have one main Christmas Market, Berlin has dozens of Christmas Markets from which you can choose based on your interests and style. So, which are the ... Continue Reading
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Last Updated on November 23, 2022 by Audrey Scott The tires of our e-bikes rested on the cobbles of what we imagined was an old imperial road. Our early morning cycle had wound up through the meadows and canopies of ... Continue Reading
The post Exploring Lazio: Off-the-Beaten Path Italy Outside Rome appeared first on Uncornered Market.
Last Updated on January 6, 2023 by Audrey Scott The hike to the Lost City in northern Colombia takes you 46km (28 miles) round trip through the jungles, hills and river valleys of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. We’d had our ... Continue Reading
The post The Lost City, Colombia: A Guide to Hiking to La Ciudad Perdida appeared first on Uncornered Market.
Last Updated on February 4, 2023 by Audrey Scott What hiking essentials do I need for a multi-day hike? What gear and hiking backpack should I take on a day hike? What gear would be too much? And what hiking ... Continue Reading
The post How to Pack For A Hike: The Ultimate Hiking Essentials Checklist appeared first on Uncornered Market.
Last Updated on December 1, 2022 by Audrey Scott Hiking in Cyprus may not be top of mind when travelers consider this Mediterranean island for vacation. Most associate it with its beaches and resorts. However, our recent visit to Cyprus ... Continue Reading
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Last Updated on August 6, 2022 by Audrey Scott What is it like to go trekking in Bhutan? To go on a Himalayan mountain adventure with wide open landscapes, snow-covered peaks, Buddhist temples, prayer flags, high altitude camping and alpine ... Continue Reading
The post Bhutan Trekking: The Druk Path Trek and New Trans Bhutan Trail appeared first on Uncornered Market.
At the end of last year as winter days grew shorter and the holidays approached, we set our sights on checking in with each other before we found ourselves immersed in the uptake of a new year. Taking off to the Caribbean to spend some time together away from our laptops, reflect on the past year and take a deep breath before a busy year ahead was just what we needed.
The post Travel to St. Maarten: 18 Unusual Things to Do appeared first on Uncornered Market.
Last Updated on April 21, 2024 by Audrey Scott How can one travel safely during Covid? What Covid research and travel planning can you do manage risk while still having a fun vacation? What any additional travel safety measures should ... Continue Reading
The post Traveling Safely During Covid: Research, Planning and Managing Risk appeared first on Uncornered Market.
In Britain, wilderness has largely been abolished. The abolition began millennia ago. Between 7,000 and 5,000 years ago, around 75% of the UK was covered in forest. Then large-scale forest clearance started around 3100 BC when Neolithic agriculture was introduced. Now, the UK has around 13% forest cover, making it one of Europe’s least densely forested countries.
The post Britain’s last remaining wild places appeared first on Atlas & Boots.
I’ve stayed in some ungodly hotels, from a roach-infested room in Sri Lanka to a Fiji campsite with toads in the bathroom. I have cried, despaired and quietly raged on holiday because of poor accommodation. Thankfully, after a decade of travel, I have finessed a list of pitfalls to avoid and red flags to look for when booking a hotel.
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"Welcome to Hotel Radomirë Korab,” Agron greets me with an enormous smile as I arrive at my lodgings. It's the end of my second day on the High Scardus Trail and I am in dire need of a drink. “Can I get you a beer?” he adds, clearly reading my mind.
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From mountains to libraries, we take a look at some of the most extraordinary international borders to be found across the globe.
Over the last few years, we’ve seen an impressive collection of new websites, blogs and social media accounts dedicated to ‘travel porn’. They’re filled with big, sweeping images of fairytale lands and precarious precipices.
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I was feeling cocky as I queued up for my Chinese visa. I had checked and rechecked the requirements and had all my documents to hand: my passport, a copy of my passport, a spare photo just in case, the form that had taken me an hour to fill in online, my flight details, and my tour and hotel confirmation. I had also signed and dated the form – in both places – unlike all the (clearly inferior) applicants in front of me.
The post Ranked: world’s most powerful passports 2024 appeared first on Atlas & Boots.
For many visitors, Málaga is simply a gateway to the crowded seaside resorts of the Costa del Sol. Relatively few will venture far from the beach. If they do, chances are they’ll head into the city which, after decades of being ignored by the masses, has undergone something of a reinvention.
The post 5 thrilling hiking trails in Málaga, Spain appeared first on Atlas & Boots.
There’s a tree I sometimes notice on my way to my boxing gym. It stands on an unsightly corner near the junction of Barking Road – which has the dubious honour of the eighth unhealthiest street in London – and one of the grubby arteries that feed into it.
The tree sits amid ugliness: overflowing bins from the chicken shop opposite, shards of glass from a smashed car window, a makeshift fence from unfinished building works, a fly-tipped cooker and fridge, and litter that rolls past like tumbleweed. In many ways, it’s a quintessential East London scene: a vast expanse of grime punctuated by striking beauty.
The post A life lived inside: reflections on my mother’s past appeared first on Atlas & Boots.
The word 'epic' does not do Alaska justice. The state is home to North America's largest mammals, national parks the size of countries and glaciers bigger than some US states. It is the least densely populated state in the USA; has 17 of North America’s highest mountains, 100 volcanoes, 3,000 rivers and over three million lakes.
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Our complete Aconcagua gear list includes everything you’ll need to summit the highest mountain in the Western and Southern Hemispheres
Aconcagua in Argentina, at 6,961m (22,837ft), is South America’s highest mountain and one of the seven summits: the seven peaks that make up the highest point on every continent.
I recently returned from climbing Aconcagua with Acomara Aconcagua Expeditions. A good trekking company will issue you with a detailed kit list, but I always like to see what other people have used.
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As a child, I lived with cockroaches in my family home. Our entire street had an infestation and it was months before the council got rid of them. I have seven siblings and not all of us fit on the sofa, so some of us would watch TV from the floor and I remember things scuttling by right next to my hand, making me leap up and scream. Sometimes, one would scurry across my pillow right before bedtime. This, quite understandably, gave me a mortal fear of bugs.
The post 10 countries that can save Earth’s most-threatened species appeared first on Atlas & Boots.
Have you picked your Halloween costume yet?
There’s still time, especially if you’re willing to brave the crowded, rubber mask–scented aisles of a costume store. There’s the standard witch hats and skeleton suits, tiny princess and superhero costumes for children, and supplies to dress as whatever’s in the pop-culture water. I imagine that this year, in 2024, we’ll be seeing a lot of Beetlejuices and Rayguns.
On the higher end, celebrities don’t hit up Spirit Halloween for their costumes. Think Heidi Klum and her eye-popping, sometimes stomach-churning ensembles. Less costumes and more works of art, they grab headlines and eyeballs around the world.
Long before Klum wiggled into a worm suit, people have been using costumes to shock and scandalize. It’s easy to imagine the wealthy and powerful of yesteryear disdaining anything so gauche as a costume party, but even royals once racked their brains for disguises that would show off their wealth, beauty, taste, or cleverness.
This wasn’t confined to one day a year, either. Masquerades and fancy-dress balls were fashionable events that could happen in any season. And some of these costumes became so well-known—or notorious—that they were gossiped about for centuries.
The Dawn of Fancy DressThe European tradition of costume dates back to pre-Christian times. That’s according to Benjamin Wild, the author of Carnival to Catwalk: Global Reflections on Fancy Dress Costume. “Wearing costumes was often associated with changes in the season,” he explains. “When people are going through changes in terms of the harvesting of crops, when they're going through changes because of the temperatures, really seismic changes in terms of how they're living their lives, these pivotal moments in people's life cycles become occasions for civic celebration.”
Some of these traditions endured well after the introduction of Christianity, such as the evil-dispelling Kukeri dancers of Bulgaria. But even observant Christians used costumes as a way to note the changing of the seasons and the passage of time. Carnival especially became a time of masked revelry and relaxed social mores: a peasant could be a king for a day, and a king could goof off in relative anonymity. In 17th-century Italy, pre-Lent festivities had celebrants dressing up or disguising themselves with masks and “domino” cloaks, and classes mingled in the streets for people-watching, music, and other entertainment.
Masked MayhemMasquerade balls burst onto the English social scene in the early 18th century. John James Heidegger, a Swiss impresario famous for his creativity and “the excessive ugliness of his face,” launched a series of masked balls at London’s Haymarket Opera House in 1710. He had been inspired by the Italian masquerade tradition, but the British dances soon took on lives of their own, expanding into public pleasure gardens and even becoming parties that people could attend regularly with purchased subscriptions.
Much like today, there were costume trends. There were the curly wigs, feathered hats, and floppy boots of “Vandyke” costumes, which were a callback to the reign of Charles I and the paintings of Anthony Van Dyck from the 1600s. There were also many outfits inspired by the Ottoman Empire, a fascination for many Europeans: Lady Villars, at a ball in May of 1772, arrived dressed as “a Sultana with an astonishing quantity of diamonds supposed to the value of thirty thousand pounds,” reported one magazine.
Sartorial ScandalsThe 18th century also saw a number of famously scandalous costumes. In her book The Dress Worn at Masquerades in England, 1730 to 1790, Aileen Ribeiro notes two specific costumes that became legendary for their shock value.
At a masquerade in 1749, Elizabeth Chudleigh, a future duchess, showed up dressed as the doomed Mycenaean princess Iphigenia from Greek legend. Many depictions exist of what she wore that night, but most show a transparent dress that, while layered to cover her bottom half, left her chest completely exposed: a choice that would be daring today, much less in 1749. Men could wear scandalous costumes as well, like when a certain Captain Watson showed up to a ball in 1770 dressed as Adam from the Bible, in “flesh-colored silk with an apron of fig leaves.” An account published in 1865, nearly a century later, described how other party-goers jumped when he approached, “imagining him to be really naked.”
The powerful and not-so-powerful took masquerades as an opportunity to mix, resulting in a number of scandalous situations. “There's a really fun story from the 18th century where King George II is at a masquerade ball in London, and he's dressed in historical English clothing, he's completely anonymous,” says Wild. “Nobody recognizes him, so much so that one of the king’s subjects asks him if he will hold their cup. The king is delighted by this.”
But this masked, anonymous mixing also made some people very nervous. Women could attend masquerades unchaperoned, and “when you're bringing lots of people together, there is the potential for people to criticize the natural order,” says Wild. In 1724, the artist William Hogarth published a print criticizing popular entertainments of the day, showing Londoners eagerly following a satyr and a fool into a doorway marked “Masquerade,” with a banner depicting opera singers hanging overhead. In the center of the print, a vendor is selling the works of celebrated playwrights such as Shakespeare and Dryden as waste paper. His message was clear: Traditional culture was being overlooked in favor of salacious foreign fun. The outcry from religious authorities and the press focused on all the immoral possibilities of masked merriment. Ribeiro notes that in 1729, the Grand Jury of Middlesex proclaimed Heidegger “the principal promoter of vice and immorality.” Two decades later, Heidegger died at age 90, beloved and well-off.
Dressing Up and Dressing DownIn the 19th century, everything changed. “The idea of masquerade in the 18th century—of different classes mingling—is largely over,” says Wild. Instead, fancy-dress balls became exclusive private events. Wild notes that Queen Victoria in particular had a hand in this formal turn. In 1842, she commissioned a dress historian to design her and Prince Albert’s outfits for her Bal Costumé that year, representing Edward III and his wife, Queen Philippa. Many aristocrats, Wild says, dressed as nobility from previous generations to tout their own genealogies, bloodlines, and “authenticities as leaders.”
Many decades later, the Devonshire House Ball of 1897 was held in London to celebrate Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee. While the queen herself did not attend, many other royals did. Czar Nicholas II of Russia and the tsarina were there, in 18th-century court dress, as well as Prince Victor Duleep Singh, son of the last Maharaja of the Sikh Empire, dressed as the 16th-century Emperor Akbar. “Stories of that fancy dress ball and what people are wearing [circulate] around the world for months afterwards,” says Wild.
It wasn’t just women who showed up in fabulous costumes to these events. The dress code at the Devonshire House Ball limited attendees to wearing either allegorical costumes or historical outfits from before the year 1815. Charles Spencer-Churchill, 9th Duke of Marlborough, showed up dressed to impress as Louis Philippe, the 18th-century French ambassador to the court of Catherine II. His suit, embroidered with diamonds and pearls, was shockingly expensive. As Wild notes in Carnival to Catwalk, the final bill for the House of Worth–designed outfit came out to more than $1.1 million in today’s dollars.
Non-royals could dress as queens and aristocrats too, of course. But according to Anthea Jarvis in her book Fancy Dress, “to dress as an Italian peasant gave the upper class English girl the opportunity of wearing a charming picturesque costume, and of displaying fashionable democratic tendencies (if vague ones) as well.” For elites wanting to cosplay as commoners, guides abounded. In the popular book Fancy dress described: or, what to wear at fancy balls, partygoers could read alphabetized costume descriptions for outfits befitting peasantry from Abruzzi, Austria, or Auvergne, while the Bs contained instructions for Basque, Breton, and Burmese peasant costumes.
Victorians also stretched the limits of their creativity by dressing up as ideas and concepts. New technologies, seasons, places, and meteorological events could all become costumes. A number of designs from the groundbreaking House of Worth fashion house show the breadth of creativity of designers of the era. Designer Léon Sault drew an incredible costume simply called Hell: a red skirt covered in cavorting devils, a bodice decorated with an owl in flight, all topped with a glorious headdress consisting of flames and a perching devil. Sault would also design more wholesomely wondrous costumes in this era, ranging from Rainbow to Flower Basket to Dawn.
Fancy Dress as FlexThe fancy-dress ball was not only a European phenomenon. In 1867, the American singer Fanny Ronalds famously combined a mythical character and concept in her costume as Euterpe, or the muse of music. At a ball she hosted at the iconic Delmonico’s restaurant in Manhattan, she wore a yellow dress embroidered with the lyrics to Verdi’s opera Un ballo en maschera, a green cape decorated with musical instruments, and a lyre-shaped crown lit from below by real fire, fueled with gas.
As the world industrialized, a handful of Americans acquired staggering wealth that they were eager to show off. In 1883, Alva Vanderbilt held an enormous costume ball at her new mansion on Fifth Avenue, inviting 1,200 elite guests to show up wearing their best. Her sister-in-law Alice Claypoole Vanderbilt won the night in her “Electric Light” dress, holding a light bulb in her hand that was powered by a battery inside her gown. Commissioned from the House of Worth and embroidered with lightning bolts, the dress symbolized two Gilded Age preoccupations: new technology and fabulous amounts of money. “Electricity is still very much in its infancy in terms of being widespread, even for the very wealthiest in New York,” says Wild. “The amount of money that people in the 19th century and early 20th century, particularly, are spending on costumes is just astronomical.”
In this era, costumes were often shocking because of how expensive they were, with reporters breathlessly relating the prices of outfits and jewelry in the papers. But, says Wild, this wasn’t always organic news coverage. “Often, there's very rich, elaborate descriptions that we read in 19th century accounts of fancy-dress balls,” he explains. “When we read about them in newspapers, that's the actual wearers themselves sending those descriptions into the newspaper to the journalist, telling them, ‘I'm wearing this, I bought it from here and I bought it from there.’” Many of the wealthy, he noted, mixed expensive, imported clothing with fake jewelry, and passed it off as real, “making their costumes look more expensive than they actually [were] to gain social kudos.”
However, some people still wore costumes that would be considered scandalous today for reasons other than the cost. At the Vanderbilt ball, socialite Kate Strong dressed as a white cat. But her costume didn’t involve a cat-ear headband. Instead, the New York Times reported, she wore “an overskirt made entirely of white cats’ tails sewed on a dark background.” On her head she wore a “stiffened white cat’s skin, [a cat’s] head over the forehead… and the tail [pendant] behind.” In the picture of Strong posing in her costume, it’s obvious that the cat on her head was not a clever stuffed replica, but a real taxidermied cat.
Backlash & BombsMuch like today, though, the media’s coverage of these events could anger the public. Disgust over the extravagance of elite parties and the unimaginably expensive costumes worn by the powerful surrounded one particular American ball held in 1897.
Cornelia and Bradley Martin rented out the Waldorf Hotel on February 10, and guests were asked to attend dressed in historical fashion. Cornelia, who planned the event, had lofty ambitions. Her aim, reported the New York Times prior to the event, was to “surpass the famous Vanderbilt function” of 1883. She and her husband bent their considerable wealth to the task of throwing a party unlike any the world had ever seen.
Cornelia’s other announced aim was to stimulate the local economy by sending out invitations only shortly before the event, “as to afford no time for the ordering of costumes from abroad,” the New York Times reported. When a prominent clergyman went on the record saying that the lavishness of the party was a sorry use of money and would make the poor feel resentful of the rich, opinions and arguments about the morality of such an event filled newspapers across the country, with articles tallying up the number of locals lucky enough to snag an invitation. Columnists interviewed other clergymen about the ball, creating a firestorm of publicity for the party. Tension was so high that, two days before the ball, someone sent a bomb to the Martin home.
The bomb didn’t go off, so the party went on. On February 10, thousands of sightseers thronged around the Waldorf. The interior, decked out with valuable tapestries and rich floral arrangements, dazzled the guests. The costumes were fabulous, too, with attendees dressed as everything from bejeweled royalty to glamorous shepherdesses. It was undoubtedly one of the most lavish and expensive private celebrations ever held in New York to that point, yet many accounts of the night agreed that there was no way for it to live up to the high expectations set by the media uproar. According to the New York Times, only half of those invited actually attended, perhaps due to the media furor. (It didn’t help that many of the young men abandoned the dance floor after midnight to dedicate themselves to the open buffet.)
While the opulence of the event and the costumes themselves were enough to scandalize society, some people still could shock by what they wore. The artist Otho Cushing was disapprovingly mentioned in the New York Times for the execution of his costume. As an Italian falconer from the 15th century, he wore a costume that was “historically correct in every detail.” That meant long hair, a cap, a short jacket, a stuffed falcon perched on one arm, and tights. The tights were the problem, since they “left little to the imagination as far as the figure was concerned,” the Times grimly reported. Like his forebear Captain Watson, “he caused a sensation wherever he moved.”
Costumes as ConnectionA costume can spark gossip, express an opinion, or mark a moment of freedom for its wearer. “One of the things I've argued is that, throughout human history, fancy dress and costume is very much a social coping mechanism,” says Wild. Dressing up as someone or something else, if only for a night can be powerful. “It's a way that we are negotiating between our individual and our social lives,” Wild adds. After all, people make and wear costumes to show them to others. No matter the era, “those almost primordial desires that we have as individuals to connect with something larger than ourselves, to be part of our society, to express that belonging, still come out.” At the very least, a stunning—or shocking—costume gives us all something to talk about. But you might want to be careful about what you wear this coming Halloween: People might still be talking about it in 200 years.
Lake Chelan invites superlatives. It is extraordinarily narrow: it extends over 50 miles into the heart of the Cascade Range, but averages only a bit more than a mile wide. It is the deepest lake in Washington (and the third-deepest in the United States) at 1,486 feet, behind only Crater Lake in Oregon (1,949 feet) and Lake Tahoe between California and Nevada (1,645 feet). It sits in a glacially carved valley, oversteepened by the glaciation, such that not only are the slopes extremely steep but the lake floor itself was gouged out by the weight of the ice to below sea level, to a maximum of 436 feet. The resulting gorge has been claimed to be the deepest in North America, if measured from the bottom of the lake.
As expected, one result is breathtaking mountain scenery, much of which is now preserved. Even though wildfires in recent years have damaged much of the forest cover, lots of spectacular country remains.
Because the rugged terrain is not conducive to road building, vessels plying Lake Chelan (pronounced "sheh-LAN") formed a major part of the local transportation infrastructure until well into the 20th century, and remain important even to this day. Up canyon from the village of Stehekin (pronounced "steh-HEE-kin"), at the northwest end of the lake, a road formerly ran to mines and prospects. However, its maintenance was so expensive, and the cost of transshipping ore to a barge at Stehekin and then back to a truck or railroad at the other end of the lake was so high, that the mines were uneconomic. The road above Stehekin now provides access to North Cascades National Park and only extends about 15 miles. Stehekin itself still has no road access—vehicles are brought in by barge—but aside from local demand, the traffic is all tourism-related now.
In contrast to the wilderness surrounding the northwestern tip of the lake, the southeast end has more subdued topography and is considerably more developed. Besides the towns of Chelan and Manson, and their surrounding exurbs including lakefront property, there is extensive agriculture, including abundant apple orchards and vineyards. This end of the lake is also warmer both because it is shallower, and because it gets more sun exposure due to the lower surrounding hills. In the summer, it is a focus of more "conventional" lake recreation. It even includes some beaches.
Seven hundred feet above the banks of the Colorado River, hikers can find what looks like a collection of square windows cut into the sandstone. The carvings were made around the year 1100 by the Ancestral Puebloan people. The cutouts served as grain storage facilities that were designed to be sealed, protecting food stores from seasonal flooding, rodents, and insects.
The ruins are most easily accessed from the Colorado River, at a beach 53 miles downstream from Lee’s Ferry. Once there, it is a moderate two-mile hike up the cliff face.
Although visitors can get quite close to the remains, they are not allowed to touch the stone, in order to preserve what remains.
This article is adapted from the October 26, 2024, edition of Gastro Obscura’s Favorite Things newsletter. You can sign up here.
Throughout my 20s, I hosted an annual birthday costume party with a different theme each year. The theme for my 21st was, of course, alcohol: I glued crystals to my face and went as Bombay Sapphire. But as my interest in food grew over time, the focus of my parties shifted from the costumes to the menu, and I stopped limiting myself to just my birthday. Last year, I prepared a Halloween brunch buffet that included toad-shaped steamed buns, a severed charcuterie arm, and green mac and cheese served in a smoking bin of toxic waste. My boyfriend, Peyam, is Persian, so this spring we celebrated Nowruz, the Persian New Year, with a homemade banquet.
Our friends, Kylie and Madhav, are just as obsessed with food as we are. They celebrate Diwali, or Deepavali, the Hindu Festival of Lights. In 2024, both the main celebration day of Diwali and Kali Puja, the festival of the Hindu goddess Kali, fall on October 31. So when Kylie and Madhav suggested to Peyam and I that all four of us co-host a joint Halloween/Diwali celebration, I could not have been more excited.
The ThemeIn some ways, Halloween and Diwali are opposites. Diwali celebrates the triumph of light over the forces of darkness, while Halloween celebrates the thrill of all that is dark and scary. But despite their different atmospheres and origins, both festivals prominently feature bright colors, burning lanterns, and sweets, and both bring together people of different faiths in celebration.
We set out to design a menu that respects and acknowledges both holidays. It’s going to be a dessert-heavy South Asian feast fit for the joyous atmosphere of Diwali, but with just a shiver of Halloween spookiness (and costumes, of course). We have dubbed this celebration “Diwalloween.”
The MenuPlanning a themed menu is all about balance. You want everything to taste good and go together, but also to fit the concept, especially visually. We decided to focus on Indian dishes with vibrant Halloween colors like orange, black, purple, and red. I opted not to use artificial food coloring, and tried to choose recipes that let the natural colors of ingredients shine. I also looked for opportunities to showcase ingredients native to South Asia that might serve my spooky purposes.
One that came to mind was jamun, a small purple fruit that tastes similar to sweet pomegranate. (The Indian dessert gulab jamun, which means “rosewater jamun,” was named for this fruit, because it’s made with syrup-soaked balls of similar size and shape.)
Last summer I made the Indian snack pani puri with jamun for a picnic. In this twist on a classic, the crispy potato-filled puri shells are dipped into a liquid blend of jamun, herbs, and spices. I decided to make this recipe again for Diwalloween, not only because it was a delicious combination of savory and sweet, but because the jamun turns the green sauce an eerie purple.
Another ingredient I knew needed to be on the menu was water caltrops, an Asian water chestnut that looks like it was designed by H. R. Giger. “Caltrops” refers to the spikes that were once scattered on battlefields to slow down enemy horses, but the outlandish nut is also said to resemble a bat, a devious mustache, a water buffalo’s head, or even a samosa (in Bengali, samosas are called shingara, meaning “water caltrops,” for their triangular shape).
Water caltrops are not always easy to source, but can be found at some Asian grocery stories in late summer and fall. Beneath their black shell is a dense white flesh with an earthy, potatoey flavor, which in South Asia is processed into flour; some Hindus cook with water caltrops flour during religious fasts that prohibit eating grains. For Diwalloween I will be boiling the nuts in salted water and serving them whole, a simpler preparation that preserves their spiky appearance.
Diwalloween SweetsSweets are an essential component of any Diwali menu, fitting the happy atmosphere that characterizes the festival. These include broad categories of confections like mithai, which are generally portioned into bite-sized pieces, and halwa, which has a soft, fudgy consistency and may be spooned or cut into squares. Given the party’s theme, it was a no-brainer to prepare gajar ka halwa, made from cardamom-laced carrots cooked in sweet milk. Not only is it perfect for fall, it’s perhaps the most orange of all traditional Indian desserts. Many other types of halwa are equally colorful, so I’m thinking of contrasting my carrot halwa with a dark jamun or beet version, or golden haldi halwa made with fresh grated turmeric root.
Then, there are the nontraditional options. Several years ago, I made autumn-themed mithai that I realized would be especially perfect for Diwalloween: little pumpkins sculpted from fruit puree and milk powder, with a segment of Pocky for the stems. Typically shaped into balls, the recipe I followed refers to this kind of sweet by its Gujarati name (penda), but in other Indian languages they’re called peda or pera.
Kylie will also be contributing a more traditional mithai (diamond-shaped orange mango katli) and a less traditional one (round purple laddu made with ube and coconut). We’re thinking of adding macabre details to some of these sweets, like sugar eyeballs.
The rest of our planned menu is just as colorful. We’ll have rice colored black with squid ink, and a potato dish from Northeast India that’s already black, due to a sauce made with black sesame seeds. There will be cubes of paneer cheese in a creamy orange pumpkin sauce, punch made with Midori liqueur and mango nectar as a witch’s potion, and blood-red cranberry chutney to drip gruesomely over it all. We’ll decorate with both pumpkins and lanterns, rangoli (geometric sand art), and creepy snake tablecloths.
Among the four of us planning the party and our guests, some of us grew up celebrating Diwali, others Halloween. We’re excited to host a fusion holiday that brings together what we love most about both, through our favorite part of any celebration: the food.
Founded in 1216, St. Olave’s Priory was dedicated to St. Olav, the patron saint of Norway, which is unusual for religious sites in England. The priory was established by a local nobleman named Roger Fitz-Osbert to create a community for Augustinian Canons, who focused on both worship and helping the local area.
Today, the ruins of St. Olave’s Priory are all that remains of what was once a busy religious community. The most notable part still standing is the gatehouse, built in the 14th century. This gatehouse served as the main entrance to the priory and is a great example of medieval brickwork, which was quite rare and costly at the time.
While much of the original priory church is gone, you can still see the foundations of the cloister, chapter house, and other buildings. This helps visitors understand how the priory was laid out and its size. Like many religious institutions in England, St. Olave’s Priory was closed during the Dissolution of the Monasteries under King Henry VIII in the 1530s.
The priory’s dedication to St. Olav is especially interesting because it highlights the connections between England and Scandinavia during the medieval era. St. Olav was a king of Norway in the 10th century who became a martyr and saint after his death in 1030. His influence spread across Europe, and the respect he received in East Anglia points to strong trade and cultural ties between that region and Scandinavia during the early Middle Ages.
Situated between the cities of Liège and Brussels sits Omal, a small Hesbaye village which is intersected by the Roman road Boulogne-Bavay-Cologne. Driving along the street, it is nearly impossible to miss the burial mounds, called tumuli, on either side. The collection is referred to as "The Five Tombs," and is thought to date back to the second or third century.
Though there are forty or so tumuli sites in the Hesbaye—the natural region where almost all the tumuli in Belgium are located—these five are known to be some of the most remarkable. According to a local legend, the site was the burial place of a Roman general and of his four sons. This would explain the distribution of the tumuli: four north of the dam and one south. However, it is unlikely that generals could have afforded such a monument. Surprisingly, almost no other Roman remains were found nearby, except for two villas. This suggests that the site was chosen because it was visible from a distance, and not because it was close to the homes of the defaulters.
The tumuli are relatively small, stretching 65 feet in diameter and reaching 13 feet high. In spite of the looting at the site, archaeological excavations in the 19th century brought to light a number of interesting objects in the tumuli, including a short sword and its ivory sheath. The artifacts are now exhibited at the Musée d'Art & Histoire in Brussels and the Grand Curtius in Liège.
In 1987-1988, an archaeological dig was undertaken at the Tomizawa site in Sendai as a preliminary inspection for the construction of an elementary school. It had been long known as the site of a prehistoric settlement, but no one expected to find what was buried underneath: a fossilized 20,000-year-old forest.
In favor of this unique archaeological site like no other, the construction project was immediately dropped and moved elsewhere. In 1996, the Sendai City Tomizawa Site Museum—commonly known as the Underground Forest Museum—was founded to protect the site. Preserved in situ, the forest is made up of spruce trees of a previously unknown species and takes up about 800 square meters of the subterranean space.
Among the fossilized forest, you can also find the remains of a campfire as well as deer dung and such. Unearthed artifacts such as arrowheads and stoneware are exhibited on the upper floor, and visitors are encouraged to touch one of the tree roots found at the site. Outside the museum is a recreation of an Ice Age forest, consisting of colder-climate trees similar to the Tomizawa spruce.
The Tomizawa site is said to be the only place in the world where such an old fossilized forest was found alongside human settlement remains spanning centuries, from the Neolithic period to the Middle Ages and beyond.
One of the most iconic moments in Brian De Palma’s 1976 movie Carrie comes right before the credits roll. By now the titular Carrie is dead, having massacred her high school bullies, stabbed her abusive mother, and destroyed her family home with herself inside. After the dust settles, we cut to a dream sequence with the sole survivor of this killing spree, a teenager named Sue.
For more than a minute, the camera lingers on Sue approaching the site of Carrie’s death and then laying down a bunch of flowers—a mournful moment abruptly interrupted by Carrie’s bloody hand bursting from the ground and grabbing her arm. The movie ends with Sue waking from this nightmare, screaming in her bed.
Carrie’s final-act stinger was a turning point for jump scares, interrupting what appeared to be a peaceful epilogue. It united viewers in a shared moment of tension-puncturing shock and, over the next decade, directors such as Tobe Hooper, Sam Raimi, and George Romero scrambled to deliver bigger and badder scares. Nowadays it’s hard to imagine horror cinema without this kind of short, sharp shock. Yet in the early years of film, different flavors of fear were in vogue, drawing from the 19th-century heyday of gothic literature and live horror theater.
Catering to a ravenous appetite for ghost stories, Victorian theater-makers used illusions like Pepper’s Ghost (which projected a translucent figure using a sheet of glass) and the Corsican Trap (which made an actor appear to rise from the ground). In Paris, the Grand Guignol Theatre became famous for embracing visceral morbidity, specializing in gory dramatizations of real-life murder and mutilation.
“As opposed to a slice of life theater, they developed a slice of death theater,” says Richard J. Hand, a professor of media practice at the University of East Anglia. He says that to satisfy the audience’s craving for gruesome thrills, Grand Guignol performances involved copious fake blood and depicted people being decapitated, skinned alive, and splattered with acid. Foreshadowing the notoriety of slasher cinema, the Grand Guignol promoted anecdotes of fainting audience members requiring treatment from the theater’s in-house physician. But while the gratuitous gore and marketing hype might prefigure modern slasher flicks, these early forms of shock entertainment are not precursors to the cinematic jump scare.
According to Hand, an expert on past and present horror theater, the element of surprise works differently on the stage than it does on a screen. Movie scares need to be fast and sudden, but in a live show, slowness is more effective. “You have that captive audience in that shared space, in that shared time,” says Hand. If something happens too quickly, the audience might miss it. Instead, theater relies on gradually building tension between the viewer and performer.
As scary fare transitioned from stage to screen, it took several decades for filmmakers to develop the correct formula of pacing and sound design to make audiences leap out of their seats.
The first cinematic jump scare is generally agreed to be in 1942’s Cat People. To modern eyes it’s pretty tame, featuring the abrupt arrival of a bus on a deserted street. Scare techniques only really began to escalate after American film censorship laws relaxed in the 1970s, ushering in an era of ax murderers, demonic possessions, and malevolent clowns. Eighties slashers perfected a reliable delivery system for adrenaline-inducing shocks and, while they’re not exactly considered high art, this kind of scare-centric filmmaking continually makes bank at the box office.
To state the obvious for a moment, horror thrives on provoking negative emotions like dread, disgust, and terror. There’s growing evidence that experiencing fear in a controlled environment can be therapeutic, but no one actually watches Saw or Terrifier for self-improvement. They’re here for entertainment, and the science of why people enjoy these negative emotions is still a developing field.
In a 2022 Atlas Obscura story on fear, cognitive scientist Marc Anderson offered an intriguing theory about why people derive pleasure from jump scares, characterizing “fun” as a “meta-cognitive signal that the brain produces when we learn something faster than expected.” Human beings enjoy novelty, and when we process a sudden scare, our brains reward us for learning fast.
Behind the camera, crafting those jolts of terror is no easy task, says Stephen Cognetti, the writer and director behind the Hell House LLC franchise.
"Before I even jump into a script, I want to have a few scares," he says. From camera angles to pacing, he begins every project with a precise idea of how these scenes will be filmed. “I’m very controlling about it because even in the editing process, one frame too much or too soon is just—it’s not right, it doesn’t work. I hate when I see a scare I've done that was edited by someone else, and they held onto something too long or too short.”
Cognetti, who aims for strategic, well-crafted shocks, compares an effective scare to a rollercoaster ride—a slow build to a sudden drop—and also to comedy, "where there’s a setup and a punchline and a payoff." Of course, some punchlines elicit more of a groan than a laugh.
“I always say that you can make anybody jump if you just have a cat jump out of a closet,” says Cognetti. “That’s cheap, it’s easy, and I think audiences will get that jump but they won’t appreciate the scare afterwards. They won’t respect it.”
The jump scare’s reputation as a cheap tactic often comes up in discussions about recent “elevated horror” or “post-horror” movies such as Hereditary, The Witch, or Get Out, which explore more serious themes than, say, Scream. Critics praise these films for avoiding trashy shock value, but the truth is they still include jump scares. They just deploy them in unexpected ways.
According to David Church, author of the book Post-Horror: Art, Genre, and Cultural Elevation, elevated horror movies are often structured to disrupt our expectations. Modern audiences are acclimated to seeing a high volume of scares, to the point where “it becomes like a game the viewer plays with the director over where the jump scare’s going to come.” But post-horror movies are "minimalistic and austere,” using jump scares sparingly—and imbuing them with more narrative weight.
For instance, the biggest shock in Hereditary comes when a main character leans out of a car window and gets decapitated by a telephone pole. It’s a scream-worthy surprise, but it’s also a traumatic event with far-reaching consequences for the other characters. It’s the polar opposite of a cat jumping out of a closet.
Church also says that post-horror films “tend to deny audiences the jump scare as a reliever of tension,” embracing open-ended narratives and remixing classic horror tropes through an art cinema lens. For viewers who expect horror movies to be “smoothly oiled machines for generating jump scares,” he says, this ambiguity can be frustrating, which explains the divisive reactions to experimental films like Skinamarink and In A Violent Nature. Riffing on familiar subgenres (haunted houses and rural slashers, respectively), these movies both have extended periods where very little happens, elongating the buildup to a scare that may or may not arrive. To some viewers, they’re clever innovations in ambient dread. To others, they’re just a snoozefest.
Carrie’s finale allowed its audience to let off steam, punctuating the end of a tragic story. This kind of tactic still works, but after decades of Screams and Halloweens and Evil Deads, the next obvious progression is prioritizing quality over quantity. Instead of provoking shock for its own sake, a new generation of filmmakers are using momentary terror to create a more lasting impact. Post-Horror author Church highlights the success of the recent elevated horror indie hit Longlegs as proof that audience tastes are expanding, signaling a desire for deeper emotional payoff alongside the old-school scares of commercial hits like Alien: Romulus or Terrifier 3.
Among London’s oldest statues, the origins of some are very well known, such as the statue of Queen Elizabeth I outside St. Duncan-in-the-West on Fleet Street, while the origins of others are unclear, such as the lower half of the statue of Alfred the Great in Southwark.
The statue called the Ancient Melancholy Man in Holland Park falls within the category of statues with unknown origins. The approximately 180-centimeter-tall limestone statue depicts an indistinct bearded man with a cloak and hat and a notably dour expression on his face. The man appears to be carrying some sort of pot or bag.
People generally agree that the statue was probably created in the 16th century, making the Ancient Melancholy Man contemporaneous with the Queen Elizabeth I statue on Fleet Street and therefore one of the oldest complete outdoor statues in London. However, no information is available on which year the statue was created, who created it, or who the statue is supposed to depict. What is known is that the statue was installed in a corner of the Formal Gardens in Holland Park when the gardens were created in 1812 by Serafino Bonaiuti.
Over time, plants have slowly covered up the statue only to be cut back so that the Ancient Melancholy Man can gaze upon the visitors to Holland Park once again. His identity and origins may never be uncovered, but the Ancient Melancholy Man is now recognized as one of the quirkier aspects of Holland Park.
This story was originally published on The Conversation. It appears here under a Creative Commons license.
There’s one question I get every time I give a talk. I’m a curator of political history at the Smithsonian Institution, and when I discuss the deep history of political division in our country, someone in the audience always asserts that we can’t possibly compare past divisions to the present, because our media landscape is doing unprecedented harm, unlike anything seen in the past.
I’m always struck by people’s belief in a placid media landscape in the past, a time of calm before the internet blew everything up. In fact, the most divided period in the history of American democracy—the mid-1800s—coincided with a sudden boom in new communications technologies, confrontational political influencers, widespread disinformation, and nasty fights over free speech. This media landscape helped bring the Civil War.
The point is not that 21st-century media is like the 19th century’s, but that the past was hardly full of the upstanding, rational, nonpartisan journalists many like to believe it was.
And at this era’s center, in the campaign that actually led to the war, was a huge, strange, forgotten movement—the Wide Awakes—born from this media landscape and fought out in the newspapers, polling places and, ultimately, battlefields of the nation.
Newspapers had been around for centuries, but as American rates of literacy rose, millions of ordinary citizens became daily news junkies. The number of papers jumped from a few publications in 1800 to 4,000 brawling rags by 1860, printing hundreds of millions of pages each year. They ranged from the snarky, immensely popular New York Herald and the blood-drenched true crime reports in the National Police Gazette to the high-minded abolitionism of The Liberator.
Nearly everyone devoured them, from wealthy elites to schoolgirls to enslaved people technically banned from reading. Newspapers published scandals and rumors, riling mobs and sparking frequent attacks on editors—often by other editors. Well into the 20th century, communities were still pulling newspaper presses out of local rivers, hurled there by angry mobs.
Ninety-five percent of newspapers had explicit political affiliations. Many were bankrolled by the parties directly. There was no concept of journalistic independence and nonpartisanship until the turn of the 20th century. These partisan presses, not the government, even printed the election ballots. Readers voted by cutting ballots from their pages and bringing them to the polls. Imagine if TikTok influencers or podcasters were responsible for administering elections.
The telegraph may seem old-timey today, but after its introduction in the 1840s, Americans could disseminate breaking news across huge territories along electrical wires. It allowed people to argue the issues nationwide—before the internet, television or radio.
Americans became a people by arguing politics in the press.
Americans became a people by arguing politics in the press. When politics was local, the major parties had avoided discussing slavery, taking what Abraham Lincoln mocked as a “don’t care” attitude. But now that Maine could debate with Texas, the topic shot to the forefront. By the 1850s, Northerners digested its evils daily.
The National Era—an abolitionist press in Washington—first printed Harriet Beecher Stowe’s hair-raising Uncle Tom’s Cabin, by far the most influential antislavery novel in history.
Meanwhile, the radical pro-slavery magazine De Bow’s Review spread a maximalist vision of expanding slavery far and wide. Americans living thousands of miles from each other could argue the issue, and the only gatekeepers were editors who profited from spreading often legitimate outrage.
It’s fitting, then, that the Northern pushback to expanding slavery came from the 19th century equivalent of “very online” young newspaper readers. Early in the 1860 election, a core of young clerks in Connecticut formed a club to help campaign for the antislavery Republican Party. They happened to live in the state with the highest literacy rates and huge newspaper circulations. So when a local editor wrote that the Republicans seemed “Wide Awake” in the campaign, the boys named their club “the Wide Awakes.”
Adding militaristic uniforms, torch-lit midnight rallies, and an open eye as their all-seeing symbol, a new movement was born, which I chronicle in my recent book, Wide Awake: The Forgotten Force that Elected Lincoln and Spurred the Civil War. Often, their chief issue was not the knotty specifics of what to do about slavery, but the fight for a “Free Press,” unsuppressed by supporters of slavery, South or North.
The Wide Awakes exploded across the national newspaper network. Within months of their founding, young Republicans were forming clubs from Connecticut to California. Most learned how to organize their companies through the papers. They built a reciprocal relationship with America’s press: cheering friendly newspaper offices and harassing pro-slavery Democratic papers’ headquarters. Friendly editors returned the favor, marching with the Wide Awakes and pushing their readers to form more clubs, like the Indiana newspaperman who nudged: “Cannot such an organization be gotten up in this town?”
None of this could be admired as independent journalism, but it sure spread a movement. It only took a few months to turn the Wide Awakes into one of the largest partisan movements America had ever seen, believed to have 500,000 members—proportionally the equivalent of 5 million today.
The same newspaper network spread fear as well. Readers in much of the South saw the clubs as a partisan paramilitary organization. Wild accounts shared accidental misinformation and deliberate disinformation, pushing the false notion that the Wide Awakes were preparing for a war, not an election.
The presence of a few hundred African American Wide Awakes in Boston morphed into claims in Mississippi that “the Wide Awakes are composed mainly of Negroes,” who were plotting a race war. A dispersed, partisan media exaggerated such falsehoods like a national game of telephone.
By the time Lincoln won election in November 1860, hysterical editors predicted a Wide Awake attack on the South. Secessionist newspapers used fears of Wide Awakes to help push states out of the Union. The Weekly Mississippian reported “WIDE-AWAKE INVASION ANTICIPATED” the very day that state seceded.
Meanwhile, Wide Awake editors began to push back against the widening secession conspiracy. German newspapermen in St. Louis helped arm Wide Awake clubs for combat.
What began in ink was spiraling into lead and steel.
In Pennsylvania, the editor James Sanks Brisbin ordered Republicans to “organize yourselves into military companies. … Take muskets in your hands, and from Maine to Oregon let the earth shake to the tread of three millions of armed Wide-Awakes.”
What began in ink was spiraling into lead and steel. It took 16 years to develop from the introduction of the telegraph to the Civil War. Undoubtedly, the fight over slavery caused that conflict, but the newspapers fed it, amplified it, exaggerated it.
Mid-19th century Americans lived with an odd combination: an unprecedented ability to spread information, but also a siloed and partisan system of interpreting it. It helped the nation finally reckon with the crimes of slavery, but also spread bad faith, irrational panic, and outright lies.
This history can add a needed perspective to today’s political conflicts, so often magnified by social media. In both eras, new technologies supercharged existing political tensions.
Yet we can see from this heated history that political media is less like an unstoppable, unreformable force that will consume democracy, and more like another in a succession of breathtaking, catastrophic, wild new landscapes that must be tamed.
Jon Grinspan is a political history curator at the Smithsonian Institution.
In countless tales of terror and other stories we tell to scare ourselves, ghosts usually haunt abandoned buildings or float through cemeteries—but why wouldn't they linger in everyday places too? From a post office to a margarita bar, spirits don't discriminate what they populate.
Here are some of our favorite stories of ghosts taking up residence in surprising spots, from lighthouses and grocery stores to dollhouses and town halls. These hauntings aren't always about apparitions, however. Sure, some accounts suggest supernatural activity, but other "ghosts" are actually human pranksters, or manifestations of an artist's imagination.
At a Haunted Grocery Store, Trying to Explain the Unexplained Has Consequences by Kate GolembiewskiA small village hidden deep in the forest on Norway's eastern border is home to some strange, supernatural happenings. What's even more peculiar than the haunting itself is the location: the grocery store. Tucked inside an old white farmhouse on the main drag, locals have come to expect the odd hauntings at their market. Flying potatoes, smashed flower pots, and reports of looming shadowy figures have all occurred here. But sociologist Lars Birger Davan is less interested in the source of the reported paranormal activity and more concerned with understanding the impact unexplainable events can have on people and their view of the world. “I’m not a ghostbuster—it’s more like catch-and-release,” he jokes.
Explore the Insidious Secrets of This Haunted Dollhouse by Roxanne HoornWhen looking at the green-tinged sink full of rotting food or the layers of dust and sand that have accumulated in this home, one might expect the place to be abandoned. Despite the chipping paint and tangle of cobwebs, the house is actually freshly decorated, and is being added to everyday. There's no need to step inside the spooky house to explore it, as you can see every room—in all their gory glory—from outside. The three-foot-tall dollhouse is a passion project of artist Lauren Bank, who uses the home to tell a visual ghost story set in 20th-century Mississippi. Like a horror novel and a diorama colliding, Banks's fascinating art tells the tales of Southern Gothic ghosts through teeny-tiny taxidermy, finger-nail-sized newspaper clippings, and other extravagant miniatures.
The Mischievous ‘Ghost Hoaxers’ of 19th-Century Australia by Joseph HayesFrom the late 19th century to World War I, pranksters disguised as ghosts wreaked havoc across Australia in a phenomenon known as “ghost hoaxing.” These "ghosts" often scared folks in locations already known for paranormal activity—and the most surprising element was who hid beneath the sheets. Despite the ghost pranks being associated with the working class, once the ghosts were apprehended, “many if not most of those arrested” were in fact “school teachers and clerks and the like and a small number of middle-class women," says David Waldron, author of the article “Playing the Ghost: Ghost Hoaxing and Supernaturalism in Late Nineteenth-Century Victoria," writes Joseph Hayes.
The pranks ended with the outbreak of the war, which eventually took the lives of over 60,000 Australian soldiers and showed, says Waldron, that there were “far bigger issues at stake. The symbolism of death [became] less amusing.”
Haunted Houses Have Nothing on Lighthouses by Sarah DurnLighthouses were designed to be beacons of hope, guiding the way for lost sailors. But in some cases, they do quite the opposite. Lighthouses are full of stories about death, isolation, madness, and in some cases actual murder, writes Sarah Durn. They're frequently reported to be inhabited by ghosts, perhaps a product of the insanity the monotonous and lonely job can bring. Dick Moehl, former president of the Great Lakes Lighthouse Keepers Association, told Dianna Stampfler in her book, Michigan’s Haunted Lighthouses, “every lighthouse worth a grain of salt has a good ghost story.”
A Small-Town Spanish Mayor Is Being Asked to Exorcise a Government Building by Cara GiaimoLate one night in the town hall of Vegas del Genil—a small town outside of Granada, Spain— a council member heard a strange sound. Fearing a burglar, he crept into the hallway and took a cell phone picture of what initially seemed to be an empty space. Back in his office, the council member took another look at the photo. This time, he saw "what appeared to be a ghostly apparition of a child," The Local reports. He quickly sent the photo to his fellow council members, seeking an explanation—and a ride home. The photo soon circulated to the public, leading citizens to call mayor Leandro Martín's office incessantly, demanding answers—if not an exorcism.
The Harrowing Tale of Afghanistan’s ‘Haunted’ Outpost by Tom MutchIt should come as no surprise that the country known as the “Graveyard of Empires” should have its share of ghost stories. Over just the last couple of centuries, countless local fighters and civilians, as well as soldiers from the British Empire, the Soviet Union, and the U.S./NATO–led coalition have died on the battlefields of Afghanistan, writes Tom Mutch. But one small outpost in the country’s deep south has become known as a hot spot for spirits. Locals and foreign soldiers have reported sightings of ghosts, along with other inexplicable events and curses.
The Phantom Island That Haunted 16th-Century Newfoundland by Shoshi ParksQuirpon Island, just off the northern tip of Newfoundland, stands cold and desolate, except for one lonely lighthouse warning sailors away from the jagged shore. The lighthouse's caretaker and any occasional visitor to the adjoining inn are the island's only human inhabitants. For the most part, no one stays for long. For close to 500 years, there have been rumors about what lies in this frigid, inhospitable corridor between Newfoundland and Labrador, writes Shoshi Parks. Early Europeans believed that there was another mass of land off the island, which was home to evil spirits, leading mariners to dub it the Isle of Demons. The name remained on maps for more than a century until the mid-1600s, when cartographers determined that there was no Isle of Demons—but the legends persist.
When fall arrives in South Korea, it brings with it not just fiery reds and russets on tree leaves, but also carpets of an unusual pink grass known as muhly. The delicate flowers of this hardy plant bloom in fluffy clumps when the weather begins cool, giving the grass its famed pink (and occasionally, purple) hue.
Pink muhly grass (botanical name Muhlenbergia capillaris) is not native to this region, but was brought in from the United States, where, interestingly enough, it has been declared an endangered species. It is now carefully cultivated across South Korea from public parks to private farmlands. Photoshoots amidst pink muhly grass are particularly popular among locals, who have been making a beeline for these fields ever since it was first grown in Jeju Island a decade ago. So much so, that in recent times, pink muhly grass has become the mainstay of South Korea’s popular autumn festivals.
As is the case with cherry blossoms, pink muhly grass pops up first down south, in and around Jeju Island. As the fall goes on, blooms make their way up north towards Seoul. One of the best places for those seeking Insta-worthy images of this fine grass is in Gyeongju, near the Cheomseongdae astronomical observatory within the royal tombs complex. Seeing this ancient 7th-century stone monument set against a blanket of soft pink is a surreal experience.
The remote gorge of Kokkala dates as far back as the Jurassic era. Located in the Mangystau region of Kazakhstan, this landscape is the result of shifting tectonic plates, which hoisted layers of colorful limestone and clay sediments out into the open. The result was a prehistoric tableau with origins from a lost world.
You won't find bones here, but the rocks are infused with ancient wood and coal deposits originating from the days of the dinosaurs. The textures of the rocks are variegated and intricate, their craggy outlines in contrast with the surrounding flat land. Round, sulfur-yellow hummocks lie at the base of the columns that encircle the gorge, their mushroom tops towering over the crumbling rock faces.
Traversing through the canyon and atop the ridges is a combination of hiking and climbing—to summit the gorge calls for a full-body navigation of a short but steep rock trail. The top of the ridge can be precarious and requires firm footing, as the narrow path is scattered with loose copper-colored rock, flanked by steep cliffs, and prone to sudden blasts of strong wind.
The ghost town of Pentidattilo sits on the southern end of Calabria, at the edge of the Aspromonte Mountains. It was first settled back in the seventh century BC, and built underneath a big hand-shaped rock—the name derives from the Greek words penta and daktylos, or "five fingers."
Many legends have been linked to this strange place, but one of the most famous is that of a 17th-century murder. The tale tells of two noble families: the Alberti family of Pentedattilo and the Abenavoli family from Montebello Ionico, a nearby town. Though the families were rivals, Baron Bernardino Abenavoli was in love with Antonietta Alberti. But when he learned that the young woman's hand in marriage was promised to another nobleman, Baron Abenavoli was enraged.
He brought a group of armed men and killed every member of the Abenavoli household except for Antonietta, whom he took captive. Though he married her a few days after killing her family, the marriage was eventually annulled after the baron fled Italy. Antonietta lived out the rest of her life in a convent. Some say that you could see the bloody handprint of Lorenzo Alberti on a crumbling wall of the castle for many years after the massacre.
Today, there are very few remaining residents of Pentidattilo, but regular visitors to the ancient town.
Standing at 6.85 meters high, this menhir, or "standing stone," is the largest of its kind in Central Europe. The sandstone monolith is thought to date back at least 4,000 years, placing it around the end of the Neolithic period.
Although the exact origins are murky, it is believed to have been erected by a prehistoric ancestor cult. In the early 1800s, Christians chiseled a cross into the stone, thereby appropriating a pagan object of worship.
The Gollenstein stood undisturbed at the top of a hill for millennia until the rise of the Third Reich, who worried that it would make for a convenient reference point for French artillery. Members of the Nazi Wehrmacht attempted to lower the menhir into a straw-lined pit in 1939, only to botch the job and have it smash into four pieces.
Fortunately, in 1951, the local mayor, Alfonso Dawo, organized a recovery mission. Workers bound the menhir back together using concrete and returned it to its rightful place.
Occupying a swathe of desert that was an ancient ocean floor over 400 million years ago, the Aktau Mountains in Kazakhstan's Altyn Emel National Park were ravaged by millennia of tectonic shifts and battering from the elements. What remains are silver flat-topped mountains shaded in gradations of white, their ashy crags dropping off vertically at the sides where bone-dust scree crumbles into the crevices below like snowdrifts. The Aktau, meaning “white mountains” in Kazakh, derive their name from the high concentration of white sediments in the terrain.
At the foothills of these ghostly mountains, colorful conical ridges reside in sharp contrast to the higher-altitude lunar panorama. Vibrant bands of brick red and vivid ochre are stacked atop veins of silver and streaks of sandy brown. The colors ripple down the mountainside, spreading out below the low-slung peaks and folding into the rocky fissures encircling the base. The horizontal stripes lie on an angle, skewing the mountains to create the illusion that they are tilting into the earth.
In the absence of rain and flash flooding, the hike to Aktau traverses the cracked red crust of water runoff, flanked occasionally by mustard yellow walls carved out by rushing water escaping from the mountains. Embedded into the hardened dusty soil are flaking cubes of gypsum, their milky white crystals flickering in the ephemeral sunlight.
This ancient limestone canyon in Kazakhstan's Mangystau region has features that evoke imaginative comparisons, from porous white chocolate to a bleached coral reef. The canyon walls are etched with lattice rock in a honeycomb symmetry, the texture like a bare skeleton in places where the white sand has hardened into bone. The sea creatures, plant life, and minerals that comprise the canyon were deposited here over 40 million years ago when these lands were submerged under the long-gone Tethys Ocean.
The unusual composition of materials and differing rates of erosion have resulted in unique formations, with the sculpting process aided by occasional rainfall to sharpen the edges and fine-tune the corners. Throughout the day, the sun’s rays angle to gain entry through the labyrinth of rock, but except for a short period of direct midday sun, the canyon is mostly impenetrable, the light blocked by wave-curl rocks frozen mid-break overhead. The walls can rise as high as six meters while the crevices dive down into the depths. Narrow passageways widen into roomier corridors, shaped by surging water forcing its way through the canyon. The canyon is not exceptionally large, but the variety of formations and perspectives leaves room for exploration.
The canyon’s sharp swooping rocks, shifting light, and dramatic formations drive comparisons with Arizona's Antelope Canyon, however, the similarities have their limits. Where Antelope Canyon is painted in sun-washed hues and well-trodden by tourists, Ybykty is desolate, devoid of color and crowds.
“Cemeteries are full of life,” says biologist Anne Pringle as she walks through the Forest Hill Cemetery in Madison, Wisconsin. It’s a bright, early October day and sunlight filters through the still-green leaves, catching strands of spider silk spun over tombstone crosses. Speckled mushrooms stand sentry over the manicured grass as squirrels chatter overhead. But the form of life that brought Pringle here is subtler: Her work focuses on the green and rust-colored splotches growing on the headstones.
These growths, called lichens, may help reveal biological rules governing life, death, aging, and even immortality. And because lichens tend to grow undisturbed on tombstones, graveyards make the perfect living laboratory.
Despite an often moss-like appearance, lichens are complex living things, arguably more closely related to animals than to plants. They’re made up of fungi living in partnership with algae or bacteria that can perform photosynthesis.
“A lichen is a symbiosis, or it's an ecosystem, or it's a world,” says Pringle, a professor of botany and bacteriology at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. “It's an interwoven, complex web of interactions.”
Fungi, like their animal cousins, can’t produce their own food the way that plants can. Many of them get nourishment by breaking down organic matter. But the fungi that make up lichens have found a different solution: living with algae and bacteria that use air and sunlight to make sugar. The fungus is nourished by these sugars and, in return, it provides the smaller organisms with a home.
There are untold thousands of species of lichens, and they can be found nearly everywhere on Earth, including Antarctica. The lichens that Pringle studies are widespread, but she focuses on individuals growing undisturbed in cemeteries, where the flat surfaces of the headstones provide an ideal surface for measurements.
Measuring lichens over time is part of Pringle’s quest to understand their life cycles, specifically a process of deterioration called senescence. As humans and many other living things get older, individuals are less likely to reproduce. Cells struggle to replenish and repair themselves and, eventually, the organism’s metabolism shuts down and it dies. Pringle has been investigating whether this process holds true for lichens as well: Do they also wither with age or is time perhaps immaterial to their life cycle?
As a graduate student, Pringle studied senescence in plants, monitoring them for signs of aging and decay. “I spent months of my life tending those plants and doing demographic work,” she says, recalling a monthly census of whether each organism was alive or dead. At the time, she was also studying fungi, and began to wonder how they fit into the equation of life and death.
But fungi present research challenges, because so much of their bodies are hidden underground in a complex, root-like network, making it hard to tell where one individual stops and another starts. Lichens, says Pringle, are “fungus made visible”—they tend to grow aboveground on the surfaces of objects, in discrete fungal structures called thalli. This makes counting and tracking individual lichens far easier than their mushroom counterparts.
In 2005, Pringle began surveying the lichens at the North Cemetery within the Harvard Forest in Petersham, Massachusetts. She got permission from the families of the people whose graves she observed; some of them belonged to previous directors of the Harvard Forest. “People seemed quite happy to have that research done on their tombstones,” says Pringle.
To conduct the lichen censuses, Pringle laid a sheet of transparent plastic over the headstones and traced over the outlines of the individual lichens with permanent marker. She repeated the process year after year, mapping the growth of each individual. While some of the lichen bodies split apart or succumbed to injuries over time, she did not document any signs of senescence. The lichens in her study didn’t appear to undergo the ravages of aging; some died, but seemingly not of old age.
In the decade since Pringle’s work at North Cemetery, she’s been mulling over the data and writing up her conclusions. While much of the research is not yet published, Pringle says, “Maybe it’s time to shift from saying, ‘Do they age?’ to ‘How is it that some fungi and some systems don’t age?’”
On her early October walk through the sunny cemetery, Pringle is accompanied by botany graduate student Zach Smith, who is learning how to study these potentially immortal lichens. They pause at various headstones so Pringle can show him how to pick ideal specimens for observation and how to distinguish individual lichen bodies. Smith was inspired to study lichens in part because so few researchers do, and much about them remains unknown.
“I like these things that are maybe a little bit difficult, maybe a little bit finicky,” he says. “That's what's so interesting about them… What are they doing?”
For his research project, Smith isn’t looking directly at lichen immortality, but rather the health of lichens over time, via a process called chlorophyll fluorescence. When an organism that performs photosynthesis—plant or lichen—encounters light, some of that light will get absorbed, and some of the light will be expelled. The photon-emitting instruments he uses measure how much light a leaf or lichen soaks up: If most of the photons are not absorbed, it’s a sign the organism is not healthy, Smith says.
He’ll revisit the same lichens once or twice a week over the course of a year to see how they respond to changes in their environment such as heat, rain, and seasonal shifts in light. While it’s early days, the results of Smith’s work could dovetail with Pringle’s research on what makes lichens so resilient year after year. He has already witnessed his tiny subjects’ surprising tenacity.
Smith recalls attempting to measure chlorophyll fluorescence on a dried-out lichen crusted onto a stick. When he flashed light at the lichen and measured its response, “I wasn’t getting any readings—so functionally, it seems like it’s not alive,” he says.
But then he put a drop of water on the lichen. “It instantly started giving me readings,” indicating that its metabolism had re-activated, says Smith. The lichen’s resurrection hints at the complex life cycles of these organisms—and how the human-centric dichotomy of “alive or dead” may not apply to organisms so different from us.
In fact, a vital aspect of the work Pringle and her students do to unravel lichen life cycles, aging, and immortality is that “it brings up really important challenges to how we think about life,” says Daniel Stanton, a lichen and plant ecologist at the University of Minnesota, Twin Cities.
Lichens, Stanton says, “don’t necessarily follow the clean, simple rules that we get taught in introductory biology classes.” Instead, they call into question our underlying ideas of what it means to be an individual living thing, what it means to age, and what it means to die.
While lichens’ abilities might seem tantalizing for us humans, Pringle cautions that they don’t hold the secrets to keeping us forever young—our bodies and life cycles are too fundamentally different. But moreover, that’s not the goal of her work.
“It's not going to cure cancer, it's not going to bring world peace, two things that we desperately need right now,” she says.
“But I would argue that there is great value in understanding the world [and] how biodiversity works so that we can preserve it, which is an integral component of human health,” says Pringle.
She adds: “It's not clear to me that the best way to repair the world isn't sitting and watching lichens grow in a cemetery and telling the world about it.”
While you may not have visited the Gullah Geechee of South Carolina, you’ve surely experienced them. If you’ve ever eaten gumbo, sang “kumbaya,” or sat on a front porch painted blue, you are living Gullah legacy and carrying on African traditions that survived the unlikeliest of conditions into the modern day. “Our culture continues to influence American culture,” says Janette Rodrigeus, curator of the Gullah Museum of Georgetown. “People just don’t know where it comes from.”
Populating the southeastern coastline from Jacksonville, North Carolina to Jacksonville, Florida, the Gullah Geechee are the descendants of enslaved West and Central Africans whose retention of African heritage, culture, and foodways is unmatched anywhere on earth. And while their story can be appreciated in museums like those curated by Rodrigues, the impact of the Gullah community can also be experienced in the food, arts, and the very landscape of South Carolina still today.
The first enslaved Africans were brought to the “Lowcountry” in the 1600s, and they had a very specific expertise desired by British colonists. “My ancestors were skilled laborers,” says Rodrigues. “They took stolen knowledge, stolen skills.” Taken from what was then called the “Rice Coast” (from Senegal to Liberia and inland), these men and women were forced to apply their vast knowledge of African rice cultivation (and to a lesser extent, indigo and cotton) to the North American coastline. In time, they built complex irrigation and dam systems throughout the Lowcountry, converting 236,000 acres of ancient maritime forest into lush rice fields. “When you drive down 17 through South Carolina, you see these wide expanses of marsh grass—they're beautiful, and they go on forever. Those are literally the footprint of the rice plantations,” says Rodrigues. Throughout the 1700s, South Carolina became one of the leading global exporters of rice, thanks to the knowledge and labor of enslaved Africans. And while the conditions of this enslavement across the Lowcountry were typical in many ways, several unique factors helped a singular culture emerge from these particular plantations.
Isolation was key. Geographically speaking, rice farming was done along the immediate coast and islands, much of which being, at the time, only accessible only by boat. “Nobody wanted to live on those isolated islands except us,” says Rodrigues. Furthermore, before the advent of air conditioning and bug spray, the muggy, buggy coastline was hostile to plantation owners’ living standards. “They were from Europe—hot and humid, Europeans didn’t do that,” says Rodrigues. “They were also afraid of getting malaria, a death sentence in those days.” Of course, native to an ecologically similar coastline across the Atlantic, the enslaved arrived with immunity. And finally, with the growing season between March and October, plantation owners vacated for cooler climes, leaving the enslaved physically isolated with little to no supervision beyond a handful of undereducated and outnumbered overseers. “You couple all these factors together and…you could still practice your African way of life on these plantations,” says Rodrigues.
While the enslaved hailed from scattered regions across West and Central Africa, they found common ground in the Lowcountry. An English-based Creole called Gullah emerged. “It’s very fast, it’s staccato, like the languages you hear spoken in West Africa,” says Rodrigues. While it’s today considered an endangered language, there are still hundreds of speakers throughout the Gullah Geechee Cultural Heritage Corridor. A coherent Gullah culture also calcified around percussive music and dance, traditional sweetgrass basket-weaving, a seafood-based diet, fables involving “haints” and “boo hags” and other forms of worship. Rodrigues points to burial traditions in particular: “the belief was that the water brought us, and the water will take us away, so it was easier for the spirit to return home to Africa if it was buried near a body of water facing east.”
If the arrival of the Union Navy at the onset of the Civil War was a surprise to plantation owners (few bothered to pack or evacuate prior to their arrival), it was a boon to the Gullah Geechee. In the Great Skedaddle of 1861, planters promptly abandoned their plantations, leaving their mansions to be converted into military barracks. The Gullah were among the first formerly enslaved Africans to see freedom. While some served in the Union Army’s First South Carolina Volunteers, others bought the farms on which they were previously enslaved for pennies on the dollar at delinquent tax sales. A deed system called “heir’s property” was instilled, whereby the descendants of the initial landowner inherited an equal share of the property. Excluding the inheritors’ names from each deed made it difficult for former plantation owners to know exactly who to sue for land reclamation at war’s end, ensuring Gullah land remained in the family for generations.
Unfortunately, the ensuing centuries saw the rice industry decline and a considerable amount of land once owned by Gullah sold to developers, but their distinct culture can be experienced today throughout the Lowcountry. Gullah cuisine can be tasted in long-loved establishments from Buckshot’s Restaurant in McClellanville to Gullah Grub on St. Helena Island; sweetgrass basket-weavers can be seen at work in the Charleston City Market, itself one of the oldest commercial spaces in the country; and the work of Gullah artists can be seen in places like Charleston’s Gallery Chuma. Of course, there’s much to be gleaned from curated experiences like those at Rodrigues’ Gullah Museum of Georgetown, the Gullah Museum of Hilton Head Island, and the Gullah Geechee Heritage Trail.
While the environmental conditions that allowed Gullah Geechee culture to flourish along coastal Carolina were by chance, the fact that the culture and people have survived into the modern day is a testament to their will. “Our people survived the Death March to the slave forts of Africa, they survived the Middle Passage, and they survived centuries of generational enslavement,” says Rodrigues. “The story of the Gullah Geechee is one of perseverance, of resiliency and determination.”
Perched in the foothills of the Sierra Madre, a day's drive northeast of Mexico City, the village of Chicontepec keeps the lore of a Mesoamerican monster alive. Details of this ancient creature are shared only in hushed whispers, in stories told behind closed doors—doors that are, ideally, guarded by hanging garlic.
Beware the teyollohcuani, a vampiric witch. It may take the form of a harmless elderly woman or man, but then shape-shift into an animal—usually a turkey, vulture, or other large bird. It flies into homes to suck the blood of infants, or worse: The word teyollohcuani actually translates as “customarily eats human hearts” in the Mexican Nahuatl language. The creature first took shape in precolonial Mexico and has been evolving ever since, as Spanish, African, and modern pop culture monsters intermix.
About 20 years ago, while anthropologist and independent scholar Edgar Martín del Campo lived with the Nahua and Otomi people of the rural region of Huasteca, including Chicontepec, he explored the complicated folklore of the teyollohcuani. His research led to the only academic paper devoted to the obscure figure—but it took a while to gather all the threads.
At first, no one in the community would talk of the taboo subject. “I got a lot of tight lips,” says Martín del Campo. “Witchcraft was not something that you openly talked about. I had to find ways of sneaking it in, or just shutting up and listening when people did talk about it.”
Martín del Campo, who has ancestral ties to the Cora people of Nayarit in western Mexico, says the country’s indigenous folklore is full of creatures with supernatural abilities, but the teyollohcuani is unique. It’s the only Mesoamerican monster that sucks the blood of children, and is also—unlike Dracula and other undead vampires—a living creature, says the anthropologist, whose 2009 paper in History of Religions detailed Spanish, African, and modern media’s influence on the stories of the teyollohcuani. As Martín del Campo discovered in the course of his research, it can be hard to tease out which parts of the creature’s lore have indigenous roots, which came from Mexico’s colonial period, and which have been added more recently.
The rise of what we think of as a classic vampire—the living dead who comes to suck your blood in the form of human or bat—is often traced back to Slavic folklore, but variations can be found around the world and throughout history, from ancient Greece to East Asia. There’s something about vampires that transcends culture, says Rachel Stewart, a doctoral candidate in literature at Ohio State University.
“At the times these traditions are emerging, it's not like someone in Mexico is calling up their friend in Eastern Europe. These traditions are just occurring naturally because of these innate fears that we have, and how we wrestle with them and make sense of them,” says Stewart, whose research on Victorian vampires and their persistence in pop culture earned her the nickname “the vampire scholar.”
Vampires hide in the human form, blending in as one of us while also blurring the line between the living and the dead. They violate our bodies and steal our blood, considered an individual’s life force in many cultures around the world. Vampires can also serve as convenient scapegoats for heinous acts, allowing a community to say, “‘It wasn't one of us that did this, we would never do this to one of our own,’” says Stewart.
“We would never do this to one of our own.”
The same is true for the vampire-like monsters of precolonial Mexico, says Martín del Campo. “Witchcraft is still a common source for explaining suffering in the villages where I did my fieldwork, and … in many cultures around the world,” he says. He adds that many people find comfort in believing, “‘My misfortune is because of somebody else's ill wishes toward me,’ whether they're aware of it or not.”
Martín del Campo believes the teyollohcuani originated within societies that spoke Oto-Manguean languages—a large linguistic family in the region—then spread to the Nahua, the ethnic group that includes the Aztecs. Tales of the teyollohcuani are now found throughout Central Mexico, from the state of Oaxaca on the Pacific coast to the Huasteca region along the Gulf of Mexico. The creature goes by different regional names, and sometimes has region-specific traits: While it usually appears as an old woman, or sometimes an old man, some incarnations can travel by flying fireball, or turn their arms into wings made of woven mats.
While the teyollohcuani today is seen as malevolent, that might not have always been the case, says Martín del Campo. In precolonial times, “shape-shifting was something only those who were attuned with the higher levels of the sacred, such as gods and priests, could do,” he says. “When the Spanish arrived, their ideas of shape-shifting were associated with witchcraft, and witchcraft was inherently evil. These beings that had formerly been sacred and mythical now turned into monsters.”
The term teyollohcuani was first documented in 1555 in Alonso de Molina’s Nahuatl and Spanish dictionary. However, earlier works, such as the Codex Borgia, a visual record of precolonial Mexico created between 1450 and 1500, feature many images of colorful birds and raptors consuming hearts and possibly blood.
Teasing out how the Spanish contributed to the myth is less certain. The teyollohcuani may seem similar to the strix, a mythical figure from antiquity that could morph into a large, bloodthirsty bird. While stories of the strix originated in ancient Rome, its lore eventually spread across much of Europe. Martín del Campo dismisses a possible Spanish influence here, noting that the teyollohcuani was already known long before tales of the strix reached Mexico.
Likewise, Martín del Campo has not found clear evidence to support another suggested Spanish influence on the indigenous folktale. Anthropologist Hugo Gino Nutini, who studied the local lore of Tlaxcala, a state just east of Mexico City, linked tales of bloodsucking witches to potential maternal neglect. In 16th-century Spain in particular, women seen as poor mothers, especially due to intoxication, were often accused of witchcraft. While it’s possible that this Spanish association worked its way into the teyollohcuani myth, firm proof remains elusive.
However, Martín del Campo has found that the cultural traditions of enslaved people from West and Central Africa, who were brought to the region by the Spanish, have influenced the teyollohcuani’s lore. It is only after enslaved people arrived in Mexico that the teyollohcuani has the ability to project its spirit or soul outside its body, a concept that exists in several folklore traditions from across Africa.
As Mexico’s largely rural Nahua and Otomi communities have increasing access to modern pop culture trends, their monsters continue to evolve. Despite the teyollohcuani traditionally being described as a bloodsucking witch, Nahuatl speakers working with Martín del Campo often translated the creature’s name as “vampire,” which he attributes to exposure to media such as Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Dracula.
In another sign of outside cultural influence, he also saw residents of the region hanging braids of garlic on their doors to ward off vampires—despite the pungent plant, and belief in its vampire-repelling qualities, not being native to Mexico. It’s yet another example of the lore of the teyollohcuani continuing to evolve, shape-shifting to incorporate new traditions.
I came to Salem on a witch hunt.
Obviously not the kind of witch hunt that made Salem infamous. That 1692 episode of mass hysteria sentenced 20 innocent Puritans to death, almost entirely women, in an American chapter so wrong it literally birthed the phrase “witch hunt.” My visit would be less dramatic. I was behind the wheel of a borrowed Toyota Scion, searching for the Salem Witchcraft Festival—four days of workshops and panels from witches, folklorists, and other pagan practitioners. For those who believe in, study, or are simply curious about witchcraft, it’s an opportunity to meet and learn from their community. The vibe is an intriguing mix of esoteric spiritualism and tightly scheduled lectures, like a software convention if Dell representatives wore a lot more black.
I came to the festival for a special screening of The Wicker Man. The gathering’s cofounders, Jacqui Allouise and Matthew Venus, included the 1973 horror film as a marquee event of the weekend. The cult classic was followed by a discussion between occult figures like writer and former MTV News anchor Meredith Graves, who established “Witchstarter” in 2022, and consultant-practitioner Sasha Ravitch. What made this panel unique was that it discussed The Wicker Man from the perspective of witches, rather than someone actually scary, like a film critic.
The Wicker Man recently turned 50, and the man looks damn good for his age, let alone for someone whose face is made of twigs. In 2020, the Independent placed it “among the most influential horror films of the last 50 years.” It’s been called “the Citizen Kane of horror movies.” Even Christopher Lee himself said The Wicker Man was “the finest film I’ve ever been in,” and that dude played freakin’ Saruman in Lord of the Rings.
As my trip to Salem all but confirmed in my mind, however, it goes beyond those accolades: The Wicker Man may be the greatest witchcraft film ever made.
More precisely, The Wicker Man is probably the most beloved movie among witches. It was chosen above any other film to show before a panel of witches, in a theater of witches, in a place with the nickname “Witch City.” And while that name is so insensitive I could feel Elizabeth Proctor rolling her eyes at me from beyond the grave as I typed it, this accolade highlights The Wicker Man as uniquely important among covens. It’s this passion for the movie so many witches hold that I find remarkable.
The film, directed by Robin Hardy, follows Sergeant Howie (Edward Woodward), a police officer who flies to the remote (and fictional) Scottish island of Summerisle to investigate a little girl’s disappearance. Howie is welcomed warmly by the townspeople, including the innkeeper’s daughter, Willow (Britt Ekland), and their leader, Lord Summerisle (Lee). But the dogmatic Christian officer is appalled by the community’s belief in what he views as heathen gods, and he begins to suspect they plan to kill the missing girl in an occult ritual.
This description, however, doesn’t do justice to how unique, enigmatic, and straight-up strange The Wicker Man is. And these mysterious qualities, while rather witchy themselves, don’t reveal why The Wicker Man is so special. After all, there are dozens of witchcraft films more recent (The Witch), more successful (Harry Potter), or more explicitly about witches (The Craft) that could have been celebrated in Salem. Why The Wicker Man?
Modern witchcraft is hard to define—an issue it shares with many religions. Witchcraft itself is diverse in its beliefs, cultures, and rituals. Some witches don’t consider it a religion at all, but simply a lifestyle rooted in reverence for nature. Some witches consider Wicca distinct from witchcraft, others do not. Some witches reject distinctions altogether. But, generally speaking, witches and other sources I consulted consider it a spiritual practice—often with pagan roots and incorporating ritual—that includes folk magic, Wicca, esotericism, herbalism, and other beliefs sometimes called New Age. Modern witchcraft is often traced back to the mid-20th century, when a renewed interest in environmentalism, the founding of Wicca, the seeds of second-wave feminism, and a postwar world searching for spiritual guidance led people to beliefs outside mainstream or patriarchal “major” religions like Christianity.
Of course, I’m in no position to make broad claims on behalf of a spiritual practice I don’t belong to. I don’t call myself pagan (though an angry Catechism teacher once called me a heathen). So I reached out to some knowledgeable witches, including Amanda Yates Garcia, author of Initiated: Memoir of a Witch and host of the Between Worlds podcast, to hear their thoughts. We met in the lobby of Salem’s historic Hawthorne Hotel, a few blocks from where Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote The Scarlet Letter, which as a writer made me feel incredibly inadequate.
Garcia was raised by practicing witches who hosted moon circles right in their California home while enjoying some wine, and she says the film resonates with her for its accurately unembellished portrayal of contemporary paganism. “What witchcraft looks like in a hereditary witch’s family is not what it looks like in cinema,” she said. “It’s casual. It’s in your living room. It doesn’t have the romance of the Scottish Highlands. You know, huge icons and glamorous women and castles. So I think there’s that appeal.”
In fact, The Wicker Man’s scenery is almost dull. The film is part of a trio of influential witchcraft films—including Blood on Satan’s Claw (1971) and Witchfinder General (1968)—known as “The Unholy Trinity.” But, unlike the other two parts of the trinity, The Wicker Man is set in contemporary times, and features no clear supernatural elements. It gives Summerisle’s villagers an eerily quotidian feel, enhanced by the brilliant work of costume designer Sue Yelland and casting director Maggie Cartier. When Sergeant Howie spots three figures glaring at him from behind ritualistic animal masks, the figures are also wearing typical 1970s hand-me-downs. Take out the occasional human sacrifice, and you could be watching a Michael Apted documentary. “Perhaps it all seems so real because the ‘old ways’ sit like vivid fissures in the surface of modernity,” said Sight & Sound, the British Film Institute’s monthly magazine. “The present is piled on top of the past, evoking a distinctly plausible world of folk tradition.” Far from being a comfort, this familiarity feels off-putting, in the uncanny valley, suggesting a mysterious world just below the ordinary.
Or, as Willow the innkeeper’s daughter might put it, “Some things in their natural state have the most vivid colors.”
The witchcraft that does find its way into The Wicker Man is also unspectacular. As a lay person, I didn’t even process some of it as witchcraft at all. “You'll actually see people do witchcraft all through the film,” said Rebecca Beyer, a witch and botanist from North Carolina and author of Wild Witchcraft. “But it’s the way that people do magic in folk ways, accurately, and so it’s very subtle like that.” Nobody is turned into a frog in The Wicker Man. Instead, the frog is placed into a child’s mouth. Beyer, who practices Appalachian folk magic, was familiar with this tradition. “She is doing an English folk remedy, because the frog croaks. So when you put a frog in someone's mouth with a sore throat, it takes away the sore throat. It absorbs it. It's called ‘sympathetic magic.’” These specific rituals aren’t necessarily practiced by today’s witches, and some folklorists have pointed out inaccuracies in the movie, but the film still rings more true to witches than the stereotypical “cackling hag” that persists even today.
Not to say witches haven't achieved incredible leaps forward since 1692, despite continued stigma (and worse). According to a survey of religions in the U.S. by Trinity College, the number of Wiccans grew from 8,000 in 1990 to more than 300,000 in 2008. During the same period “paganism” became Canada’s fastest-growing religion. And in 2017, the Department of Defense added “Wicca” to its list of recognized faith groups for members of the United States military.
What does The Wicker Man movie actually have to say about witches, though? Couldn’t one look at the villager’s duplicity toward Howie and the violent final act as a bleak depiction of witchcraft? Jason Mankey, author of The Horned God of the Witches, understands why pagans would still embrace the film. “The Wicker Man was the first movie to portray pagans in something close to a sympathetic light,” he told The Independent in 2020. “Sure, they have to sacrifice a person on May Day every once in a while. But for the most part their society feels like a rather joyous one.” And Vivianne Crowley, a Wiccan high priestess and former lecturer at King’s College London, told Religion News Service she was “astonished” by the movie when she saw it in 1974. “Suddenly paganism was out there and given a serious role in this movie even if some of the presentations weren’t particularly positive,” she said.
After decades of being portrayed as one-dimensional demons or angels, as the Wicked Witch or Glinda the Good, here was a film that portrayed witches as something more complex. As people capable of both great joy and kindness, and great acts of brutality. In other words, as humans.
All of this, of course, still doesn’t fully explain the unique allure of The Wicker Man. Maybe nothing can. Any film that pauses the action for a nearly four-minute maypole dance sequence is tricky to categorize. Its appeal is largely ephemeral, as if it casts a spell of its own over its audience. This is, after all, a movie so confounding the only way the 2006 remake could hope to top its oddity was to cast Nicolas Cage.
Shortly before I left Salem, while speaking with Garcia, I realized we hadn't talked about the film’s biggest star (literally and figuratively), the actual wicker man. Unlike the movie’s other depictions of witchcraft, there’s no archaeological evidence pagans used them, and no reliable accounts of the ritual ever happening. Why, I asked, did the same filmmakers who spread so many familiar details throughout Summerisle conclude The Wicker Man with such a spectacular act of witchcraft fiction?
“I don't think the filmmakers were interested in accuracy. I don't think that that was their primary reason for making their film,” Garcia said. “I think that they were just putting in things that they thought had cinematic or visual interest.” Given what we had been discussing, this answer surprised me. But, she added, the visuals themselves brought the audience to a place that feels akin to the world of witchcraft: “That kind of magical realm of enchantment.”
Accurate or not, that final image, darkness falling on Summerisle as Howie howls through an agonizing end, threatens to break that enchantment. It’s a chilling conclusion, even if it is set to the jovial tune of the “Cuckoo Song.” (In fact, that song is half the reason the movie gives me nightmares.) It inevitably makes us think about our own deeply held beliefs. Even if wicker men were dreamed up by Caesar, sacrifices—animal and human—were a part of ancient religions. (Google “bog body” if you’re as morbid as I am.) Modern witchcraft, obviously, is not specifically drawing from those traditions. But it's a tension between the past and the present that resonates with just about anyone (witch or not) who watches The Wicker Man—which, frankly should be everyone.
Beyer, who was, like me, in that enthusiastic crowd of modern witches celebrating the movie in Salem, doesn’t dismiss this tension. In fact, she suggests the unanswered questions are an essential part of what makes The Wicker Man great. “I think the movie is supposed to kind of leave the viewer asking, like, what parts of the past do we preserve? What parts of folkways are important to hold on to?”
It’s a question we may never have a perfect answer for, except that we should hold on to The Wicker Man as long as we can.
Pick your player and experience Los Angeles like never before. Follow locals who know the scene best—ride the waves with surfer J.D. Stroud, explore LA’s film heritage with critic Katie Walsh, and taste the city’s culinary magic with food writer Khushbu Shah.
Whether you’re catching epic waves, searching for cinematic treasures, or hunting for hidden food gems, this is your chance to level up your LA adventures.
The Soul Surfer: Make Waves in the Authentic Heart of Los AngelesWant a truly authentic LA experience? Hit the waves with J.D. Stroud, surfer, author, and native southern Californian. “The surfing community is actually a big testament to how real and genuine people are here,” Stroud says.
The Film Freak: Discover the Hidden Treasures of La La LandFrom its vintage video stores to its legendary theaters, Los Angeles was truly made for cinephiles. As film critic Katie Walsh puts it, “The film scene in LA, especially right now—it is an embarrassment of riches.”
The Epicurean Explorer: Dig Into Culinary Easter Eggs in the City of AngelsIn the mood for Filipino barbecue? How about Korean cake? Discover why LA is “one of the best food scenes in the entire world” with famed food writer Khushbu Shah.
Produced in partnership with Discover Los Angeles
It is midnight. The moon is dim, and hundreds of diminutive people—bearded, flat faced, and pale, with large blue eyes—are hard at work atop Fort Mountain in northern Georgia. They’re building a zigzagging wall of rocks from east to west. The wall is only a few feet tall, but they hope it will protect them from the Cherokee, so much taller and stronger than themselves.
All across Appalachia, there are tales of bands of these strange people (Yunwi Tsunsdi in Cherokee), living in the region’s many caves and coming out only at night, because daylight was too strong for their weak eyes. “They come near a house at night and the people inside hear them talking, but they must not go out, and in the morning they find their corn gathered or the field cleared as if a whole force of men had been at work,” wrote Lynn Lossiah, Cherokee author of The Secrets and Mysteries of the Cherokee Little People. “Always remember: Do not watch.”
For centuries, stories of these “moon-eyed” people have captivated—and creeped out—locals and visitors alike in Appalachia. According to some legends, they were present before the Cherokee came to the area, and driven out in a battle at Fort Mountain, waged by the Cherokee when the full moon was too bright for their opponents’ sensitive eyes.
“We are asked everyday about the legend,” says Emmanuel Stewart, park manager at Fort Mountain State Park. “It’s one reason why many people visit.”
According to rangers, archaeologists estimate the wall at Fort Mountain was built between 500 and 1500 , but no one knows who actually constructed it. For believers, what’s left of the mysterious wall is proof that the moon-eyed people did indeed exist.
Sixty miles away, at the Cherokee County Historical Museum in Murphy, North Carolina, another object has been cited as evidence of their existence. The curious, three-foot-tall talc and soapstone statue was discovered by a farmer named Felix Ashley in the 1840s and features two entwined figures with oval heads and large, crescent-shaped eyes.
In 1882, an article in the Native American newspaper Cherokee Phoenix detailed the discovery of “three burying grounds” of extremely small-statured people—the longest skeleton was a mere 19 inches—near the Tennessee town of Sparta. Some of the individuals appeared to have adult teeth that were worn down with age. Several of the bodies, interred in stone coffins, were buried with items that may have been made from shells. There is no record of what happened to the remains, but the article is often mentioned by those who believe the moon-eyed people were real.
For most, however, “It’s just this old-timey Appalachia legend that people hear from their memaw,” says Brandon Schexnayder, who has explored the tales on his podcast Southern Gothic.
Schexnayder notes that the earliest preserved stories of the moon-eyed come not from Cherokee sources, but from white colonists. The 1797 book New Views of the Origin of the Tribes and Nations of America includes a mention of the Cherokee expelling the moon-eyed people, as does 1823’s The Natural and Aboriginal History of Tennessee and James Mooney’s comprehensive Myths of the Cherokee, published in 1888.
“Always remember: Do not watch.”
“The legend of the moon-eyed people is not a major part of the Cherokee history and culture,” park manager Stewart confirms.
But white colonists were fascinated by the legend and speculated about who the moon-eyed people could have been. Some believed they were possibly descendants of a fabled community of albino people who were said to have lived in what is now Panama. Others adhered to the idea that the moon-eyed were actually descendants of the mythical 12th-century Welsh prince Madoc ab Owain Gwynedd, who allegedly landed in the Americas near what’s now Mobile, Alabama.
For example, in 1801 John Sevier, the first governor of Tennessee, related a tale of a war between the Cherokee and white people who had lived there before them, which he claimed was told to him by the great Cherokee leader Chief Oconostota. “At length the whites proposed to the Indians, that if they would exchange prisoners, and cease hostilities, they would leave the country, and never more return,” the chief reportedly said. Also part of the tale: A Cherokee elder named Pey possessed part of an old book from a descendent “of the Welsh tribe.” Sevier said that he had searched for the book but discovered it had been destroyed—conveniently—in a fire.
Tales of Madoc’s “Welsh Indians” had captured the imagination of jingoistic colonialists since Elizabethan times, because their purported existence meant that North America had been “claimed” for the English long before Columbus arrived in 1492. Thomas Jefferson was a firm believer in them and encouraged Lewis and Clark to search for them during their trek westward (they found none).
There were Welsh people living in Appalachia when the moon-eyed people stories began circulating, however. In the 18th century, Welsh settlers came to the region to mine its mineral-rich mountains, leading to tensions with the Cherokee, whose land they were plundering.
“They called the Welsh ‘moon-eyed people,’ not because they were small, white skinned, and the men bearded, but because they lived underground and could see well in the dark,” Peter Stevenson wrote in the 2019 book The Moon-Eyed People: Folk Tales from Welsh America.
While this version of the story may explain the Welsh connection to the legend, it’s at odds with the stories in Lossiah’s Secrets and Mysteries of the Cherokee Little People. Here, the moon-eyed people are not pale; they have the same complexion as the Cherokee. In Lossiah’s version, the “little people” can be hospitable or sneaky and treacherous, and they’re particularly vengeful when mocked or betrayed, traits that parallel European trickster elves and gnomes.
According to Lossiah, Cherokee tradition taught the importance of respecting the Yunwi Tsunsdi and their territory. “When a hunter finds anything in the woods, such as a knife or a trinket, he must say, ‘Little People, I want to take this,’” she wrote. “Because it may belong to them, and if he does not ask permission, they will throw stones at him as he goes home.”
Tales of the moon-eyed or little people of Appalachia persist to this day and, perhaps inevitably, “There are people saying [they are actually] extraterrestrials,” Schexnayder says.
“There are people saying they're extraterrestrials.”
While the true identity of the people that inspired the legend remains a mystery, “There is clear evidence that there were native peoples here before the Cherokee,” says Fort Mountain’s Stewart, citing the park’s ancient wall and other structures found in the region.
“But who this tribe was in the case of Fort Mountain, and whether they were the same [as the] moon-eyed people mentioned by the early settlers and their contacts is unclear,” Stewart says, adding that archaeological excavations along the wall have turned up few clues about its builders. “If the dwellings or homes could be found, then this would provide a huge breakthrough on their identity.”
Amid conflicting tales of mythical Welsh princes, lost tribes, and fairy-like forest creatures, there is one truth we know about the so-called “little people” of Appalachia, says Schexnayder: “The legend of the moon-eyed people shows that we don't have to go that far back to know that we don't know anything about where we live.”
An elusive beast is said to lurk in Pennsylvania’s hemlock forests. It supposedly slinks between the shadows on moonlit nights, wary of water where it might see its own reflection. With ill-fitting skin covered in moles and warts, it’s among the most hideous of creatures ever to walk the land—and it knows that. The monster weeps constantly as it huddles in the undergrowth, ashamed of its own appearance. Hunters can follow the damp path of its tears until they’re close enough to hear its unceasing sobs. Yet even those who corner the creature cannot capture it. When escape is impossible, it dissolves into tears, leaving its would-be captor with nothing but damp hands.
This is the legend of the squonk, a cryptid allegedly first spotted by lumberjacks working in an area that’s known today as Tuscarora State Forest. The beast was first described on paper by William T. Cox in the 1910 book Fearsome Creatures of the Lumberwoods, where he calls it the scientific name Lacrimacorpus dissolvens. Cox says the squonk is “the most morbid of beasts,” relating the account of J.P. Wentling, a U.S. Forestry Service worker and resident of nearby Mont Alto, who claimed to capture a squonk in a sack only to get home and find it contained “nothing but tears and bubbles.”
For many native Pennsylvanians, the squonk is a staple of childhood lore on par with another cryptid well known to Boy Scouts, the snipe. As Gerard O’Neil notes in his essay “The Squonk: A Small Tale from Franklin County,” squonk hunting “bears a curious resemblance to one variant of the ‘snipe hunt’… a fool’s errand that involves experienced outdoorsmen making fun of newcomers by giving them an impossible or imaginary task.” The cryptid has inspired pop culture, from the 1976 song “Squonk” by Genesis to the Pittsburgh-based performance art troupe called Squonk Opera.
Despite these musical hat tips, it may surprise native Pennsylvanians to learn just how regional the legend is. While other Appalachian cryptids like the mothman and wampus cat have gotten their turn in the spotlight, the squonk has languished in relative obscurity (which is likely just the way the creature would prefer it). The squonk can occasionally be found in lists of fantastical creatures, most notably in Jorge Luis Borges’s The Book of Imaginary Beings.
Otherwise, folklore literature makes only passing mentions of the little-touted cryptid. Many recorded references to the squonk are metaphorical, such as when J. Mitchell Morse, an English professor at Temple University, noted in 1974 that public officials were “turning into squonks…hard to capture because when you touch it, it dissolves into tears and there you are with your hands in a puddle.” Or, in 2023, Tedium editor Ernie Smith noted the squonkiness of social media, saying a sad creature that disappears when cornered “describes at least half a dozen people I’ve talked to on Twitter.”
However, two people decided the creature’s largely uncelebrated status should change. Lisa Russell, founder of Cryptid Comforts, and Joe Fogle, owner of Cryptoteeology, are both vendors who frequent cryptid events across the country, which sparked an idea. “Joe and I were talking one day, and I mentioned I’d like there to be a Squonk Fest,” says Russell. “He said, ‘Let’s do it!’”
So in August 2023, fans of Appalachian folklore and cryptozoology descended on Johnstown for the first-ever Squonkapalooza. In addition to more than 60 vendor booths, the event activities included a squonk compliment contest, a squonk quest, games, music, and lectures on topics ranging from Pennsylvania lore to whether Bigfoot exists. A costumed squonk even tried its hand at hula-hooping.
It was initially conceived as a one-time event. But the amount of cryptid-lovers who traveled to the town resulted in an unexpected outpouring of support. The founders immediately realized the potential for an annual festival.
The second Squonkapalooza took place August 10, 2024, and it proved equally popular, with hundreds of visitors perusing the vendor stands in Johnstown’s Central Park and watching lectures, podcast recordings, and movie screenings in the State Theater. The 2024 event extended beyond the festival’s official hours, with music and cryptid trivia the Friday before and an afterparty at nearby Fetz’s Sports Pub. The organizers hope to keep it going for years to come.
“The squonk seems an unlikely creature to throw a festival for,” Russell admits, “but squonk might also be the most relatable creature. Everyone feels a little squonky sometimes. So we wanted to turn squonk’s frown upside down and celebrate the sorrow. We support the underdog.”
"Everyone feels a little squonky sometimes."
Johnstown is something of an underdog among Pennsylvania towns. Aside from its proximity to the cryptid’s native territory, it’s a fitting setting for a squonk festival. “I knew that there was a large cryptid community in the area, so I thought it was a perfect location,” says Russell. “Everyone welcomed [the squonk] with open arms.”
Johnstown’s main claim to fame is a tragedy involving water: the Great Flood of 1889, which leveled four square miles, destroying 1,600 homes and killing more than 2,200 people. In fact, it seems like every time Johnstown catches a break, a major flood dissolves those hopes into tears.
In the 1920s, Johnstown was a thriving city of some 67,000 people, with its own radio station and a vibrant downtown—at least, until the St. Patrick’s Day Flood of 1936 washed it all away. The city clawed its way back, becoming a key player in Pennsylvania’s steel industry.
Then a third major flood in 1977 proved a herald of that industry’s imminent collapse. By the end of the 20th century, Johnstown seemed to be dying a slow death. In 2003, the Census showed Johnstown was the U.S. city least likely to attract new residents.
But Johnstown has quietly persevered, supported by tight-knit communities like the cryptid lovers who have made the first two festivals such a success. The city’s population is still shrinking—as it has consistently since its 1920s peak—but at a slower rate than at any point since the 1977 flood. Events like Squonkapalooza give the city an identity separate from its tragic history and a chance for residents and visitors alike to enjoy Johnstown through a new lens.
The squonk, too, has undergone a transformation over the past few decades. In PennLive’s “Paranormal PA” series, Claudia Dimuro notes that “modern pop culture has given the squonk a somewhat heroic makeover,” elevating it from a pathetic creature “to an icon of the awkward, isolated, and alone.”
The squonk is relatable in its self-consciousness; plenty of cryptids are ugly, but none of the others cry about it. By turning the squonk into a reason to smile, Squonkapalooza encourages Johnstown and its visitors to make peace with their own insecurities and imperfections—all while bringing some overdue recognition to a long-neglected local legend.
Indigenous Brazilians have fermented alcoholic beverages from the cassava root for thousands of years. These beer-like beverages go by names like cauim, caxiri, and tarubá. Fermentation is an important step in cassava processing—the raw root has chemicals that can turn into cyanide in the human body. Native peoples found that a bit of human saliva and some naturally occurring yeast could eliminate these toxins and improve the nutritious value of the tuber. When the technology of distillation arrived to the Munim River region (now in Maranhão), locals who already drank lightly alcoholic cassava beverages began to distill them. Tiquira was born.
The name tiquira is likely derived from the Tupi word tykyre meaning "to drip." But it is a curiosity that the spirit has flourished in only one Brazilian state, Maranhão. Margot Stinglwagner, founder of Guaaja Tiquira, the first modern brand to produce the spirit starting in 2016, says “It’s a spirit that is also unknown in Brazil. A few people have heard about tiquira—but usually only people who have gone to Maranhão once.” Accordingly, the state moved to declare the spirit as a piece of Cultural and Intangible Heritage in September 2023.
Part of the reason that tiquira has remained so isolated is that cachaça, Brazil’s rum, is far easier to produce. Because the rum comes from sugarcane, the sugar for fermentation is already there. “With cassava, you don’t have sugar,” Stinglwagner explains. “You must first transform the carbohydrates into sugar and then you can ferment and distill it.” To achieve this end, Guaaja Tiquira uses food enzymes instead of the traditional human saliva. Guaaja also differs from other distillers because they use full cassava roots where most tiquira moonshiners rely on processed farinha de mandioca, or cassava flour.
“The majority of people produce it illegally,” laughs Stinglwagner. “The state does nothing about it.” Outside of the urban center, tiquira is invariably a homemade product. Generally, tiquira makers don’t separate the "heads" (the first drops of liquor from a distillation, which contain harsher alcohols including toxic methanol and other pungent and volatile flavor compounds) from the "tails" (the final liquid produced from distillation, which has a low alcohol content and can have unwelcome bitter flavors), meaning the spirit is stronger and may contain more toxins and impurities. Some even macerate marijuana into the combined spirit to produce the doubly-illicit tiquiconha.
Maranhenses believe that you cannot get wet or bathe after drinking tiquira, lest you become faint or dizzy. Zelinda Machado de Castro e Lima, one of the great chroniclers of folk culture in Maranhão, has recorded other traditions surrounding the drink. Firstly, it is typical to pierce a cashew with a toothpick and soak it in a glass of tiquira for several hours. It is then sucked as a sort of boozy lollipop. She also writes about the belief that those drinking coffee should avoid tiquira, while locals say that fishermen on the coast used the liquor to sanitize wounds incurred on the job.
Finally, there is the curious question of the color of tiquira. In the tourist markets of São Luís, the spirit is always blushing a translucent violet. “They say that the color of tiquira is from tangerine leaves, but we tried to do it and the color from the leaves is not stable,” says Stinglwagner. “It is also not a strong color. The norms and laws for tiquira prohibit the addition of the leaves.” The violet color may be artificial (perhaps from food dyes), but some tiquiras do have a citrusy flavor.
Tiquira today is still largely relegated to the world of moonshining, but with the government’s recognition of the spirit and new legitimate ventures like that of Guaaja Tiquira, Brazil could be seeing more of the cassava liquor outside of its home in Maranhão.
“All the people say to me, ‘What is this new spirit?,’” says Stinglwagner. “I say, ‘It’s not a new spirit, it’s the oldest spirit from Brazil.’”
Know Before You Go
Tiquira is widely available in the downtown markets of São Luís, Maranhão. Both the local Mercado Central and touristic Mercado das Tulhas have many vendors selling tiquira. The commercial brand, Guaaja Tiquira, is also available in São Luís at Empório Fribal, in addition to Copacabana Palace and Fairmont Hotel in Rio de Janeiro, and Mocotó Bar e Restaurante in São Paulo.
The origins of Germany’s Maultaschen are deliciously devious. Legend has it that, in the late Middle Ages, a lay brother named Jakob invented the stuffed pasta dumplings at the Maulbronn Monastery, a UNESCO World Heritage site founded in 1147 by Cistercian monks in southwest Germany.
One direct translation of Maultaschen is “mouth pockets,” though “Maul” could just as easily refer to Maulbronn. Maultaschen are usually square dumplings (though sometimes they're rolled) and can be fried in a pan or served in broth. Commonly described as Germany’s version of Italian ravioli, they allegedly emerged as a way to use up an unexpected bounty of meat that Brother Jakob stumbled upon in the forest outside the monastery walls.
The twist? Although they abhorred waste, these monks weren’t allowed to eat the meat of four-legged animals, especially during the Catholic fasting period of Lent in the spring. So Brother Jakob minced the meat with herbs and onions and wrapped everything inside pasta dough, hiding the forbidden flesh from the eyes of his fellow monks—and even from the eyes of God.
In Swabia, the region encompassing much of Baden-Württemberg and part of Bavaria where Maultaschen originated, one of the colloquial names for the food references this deception directly: Herrgottsbescheißerle means “little God-cheaters.”
Everyone in Swabia has their version of the legend with more or less embellishment. Ludwig Nestler holds a master’s degree in heritage conservation and works for the State Palaces and Gardens of Baden-Württemberg, a government organization that oversees monuments like Maulbronn Monastery. His version of the tale includes a sack of stolen meat dropped in the woods by a fleeing thief, which inspires Brother Jakob’s trickery in the kitchen. But he acknowledges that there’s no undisputed “historically correct version” of how Maultaschen came to be. Similarly, everyone in Swabia has their own Maultaschen recipe, with unique ingredients for the minced filling, called Brät.
“Traditionally the Brät is made from pork mixed with herbs, onions, and occasionally bread crumbs for texture and stability,” says Nestler. Swabia, however, “was a rather poor region with limited amounts of meat due to rather unfertile land, so being adaptive and innovative has always been a part of the people’s nature.” As Maultaschen became popular, fish and seasonal vegetables like spinach, carrots, beets, and mushrooms became common inclusions.
Today, the European Union ties Maultaschen to Swabia with a Protected Geographical Indication, which lists required ingredients the authentic product should feature, but even the necessary inclusions are pretty loose, such as “pork and/or beef and/or veal” for meat Brät and “typical regional vegetables” for meat-free Brät. It speaks to the way the dumplings developed as subsistence food, used to stretch leftovers and reduce food waste.
Today, Germans throughout the country enjoy Maultaschen in dozens of flavors in all seasons thanks to grocery stores that stock packaged varieties made by companies like Ditzingen-based Bürger, whose mascot, Erwin, is a Maultasche (the singular form of the plural Maultaschen).
But the dumplings remain most popular in southern Germany. Maulbronn Monastery offers a special tour that pairs Maultaschen with wine from the monastery’s vineyards. And many locals, including Nestler’s family, still make them from scratch on special occasions—even during Lent, when meat might otherwise be off the menu. There’s no telling if it’s a fraud good enough to fool God, but it’s worth a shot.
In 1914, absinthe was outlawed in France. In the small mountain town of Pontarlier, the world capital of absinthe, the news devastated the livelihoods of thousands of local workers. Nearly all the town's distilleries closed their doors or relocated. But one producer, Distillerie Guy, remained open, all thanks to adaptation and innovation. Its bestselling drink, Pont (formally known as Pontarlier-Anis), was created as a result of the absinthe ban and remains a beloved classic at the distillery to this day.
Pont was the invention of George and Armaund Guy, whose family distillery had been making absinthe since 1890. Following the nationwide ban, the distillers continued to use their absinthe recipe, with one key change: excluding the supposedly “madness-inducing” ingredient, thujone, and replacing it with green anise.
When poured, Pont is clear as the local mountain water it contains, turning to a cloud of white when diluted. It has a frosty freshness, not unlike the sensation of breathing after chewing on a mint, while whipping the tongue with a smooth licorice sweetness.
The licorice taste comes from the distillation of green anise, differentiating it from the star anise used in other anise spirits such as ouzo or pastis. Compared to those spirits, "Pont is lighter, purer, more subtle,” says Sébastien Siredey, who works at Distillerie Guy. “It is distilled from natural ingredients. It is more haut-de-gamme than pastis."
Pont also appears in a powerful local mixed drink known as the “Sapont.” The drink is a portmanteau that combines Pont with Sapin, the French word for “fir tree” that's also the name of another liquor produced by Distillerie Guy. Their Sapin is made from local fir trees that provide a sharp botanical flavor. A Sapont mingles together Sapin’s pine-green color and Pont’s snow white, with an icy coolness and wood-infused licorice warmth.
As with absinthe, the strength of botanicals lends a slightly medicinal flavor to every bottle of Pont and Sapin. “We are the pharmacy of Pontarlier,” Siredey jokes. Absinthe, Pont’s troublesome predecessor, was in fact used for medicinal purposes, until it was popularized by French soldiers in the war in Algeria, who grew fond of it for more than its purported healing properties.
In 1988, France legalized the sale of absinthe (with regulated thujone levels), but did not allow producers to use the word “absinthe.” This odd stipulation was overturned in 2011 and absinthe made its formal return. But despite the notoriety of the “green fairy” Pont has remained a favorite among local connoisseurs.
When it comes to Distillery Guy, the workers prefer their signature liquor. “At apéro, it’s Pont," says Siredey. "Not one of us drinks absinthe.”
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Syria was, literally and figuratively, a wild ride for me. I have millions of thoughts on my time there, but I’ll start with the first question everyone has: what was it like to travel to Syria?
For decades, travellers have been drawn to the Arab world’s hidden network of natural wonders, which spans from the lush palm groves of Oman to the dry oasis of Saudi Arabia. Mineral-rich hot springs, rejuvenating fountains that appear to breathe new life into the surrounding landscapes, are among the region’s most sought-after havens. Those in need of a vacation from the fast-paced world of today may take advantage of these geothermal spas and inexpensive luxury flights with Flyadeal for the ultimate rest and renewal. Read on to learn about some of the best hot springs in the Arab world.
Endless scenic roads leading everywhere and anywhere. Every kind of landscape, from snowy mountains to aquamarine coastline. A strong culture of hospitality toward foreign visitors. Motorcycle travel in Turkey (Türkiye) is a dream every biker should experience at least once.
Truck art motorcycle rental in Pakistan is a no-brainer. Here’s how we can make it happen for you in Islamabad.
Traveling overland in Turkey with your own vehicle but need to leave for some time? Here’s a guide to leaving your foreign vehicle in Turkey (Türkiye), based on my experience leaving my foreign motorcycle in Turkey for 2 months.
Traveling overland in the Middle East? You’ll likely end up at the Kuwait-Iraq border crossing eventually! Here’s what you need to know, based on my experience crossing the border by motorcycle in January 2023.
Biking through Iraq? Yes, it can be done! Here’s my guide to motorcycle travel in Iraq with everything I learned from one month of biking solo across Iraq.
Yep, solo female travel in Iraq is possible! I was there for a month, and I survived (and, dare I say, thrived). Here’s my guide with everything you need to know to travel Iraq as a solo woman.
A wee story from my visit to the Al Hasun Museum in Basra. It ended up being my favorite thing to do in Basra, Iraq!
A lot of travelers want to know if it’s possible to travel from Pakistan to India (or India to Pakistan). I’m here to say yes—yes it is! Here are ways to travel from Pakistan to India, border crossing tips, and more.
If you’re a frequent traveler, you know that planning multiple trips throughout the year can be a logistical challenge. There are lots of moving parts to organize, from flights to accommodation to activities. And it gets even more challenging if you’re traveling with friends or family. In fact, there’s so much to keep track of...
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I love visiting Japan. Even after multiple visits, I never get tired of wandering the country’s historic temples, feasting on its incredible sushi, and soaking up the breakneck pace of life in Tokyo. After over half a dozen visits, I’ve learned through trial and error how to best explore the country. English isn’t widely spoken,...
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Advertiser Disclosure If you want to travel cheaper, better, and longer, one of the best tools in your arsenal is a solid rewards credit card. Still, despite how often I talk about the topic, many travelers (or would-be travelers) are reluctant to get one. They think it’s a scam, don’t want to pay an annual...
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Advertiser Disclosure If you’re like me, you’re always on the lookout for ways to make your adventures more affordable and enjoyable. That’s why I collect points and miles. They help me travel longer, better, and cheaper. Today I want to talk about a card that’s been growing in popularity over the past few years: the...
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In the land of the Brothers Grimm, I was expecting creepy overgrown forests, quaint medieval towns, and maybe a gingerbread house or two. But, it turns out, the Brothers Grimm tales weren’t from the Black Forest region of Germany (most are from the central part). Why did I think they were from there? I don’t...
The post My Suggested Black Forest Itinerary appeared first on Nomadic Matt's Travel Site.
Melbourne is my favorite city in Australia. It’s a vibrant, multicultural city known for its rich arts scene, world-class dining, and lively atmosphere. It’s a hub for backpackers and travelers too. The mix of old-world architecture and modern skyscrapers gives the city a unique charm. I especially love strolling through Melbourne’s iconic laneways, enjoying the...
The post The 6 Best Hotels in Melbourne appeared first on Nomadic Matt's Travel Site.
Boston, with its rich history, wide-open green spaces, and first-rate museums, is a must-visit city for any traveler. While I may be biased (I grew up here), I think more people should visit — especially history buffs and foodies. Whether you’re strolling the cobblestone streets of Beacon Hill, exploring the bustling Seaport District, or enjoying...
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I’ve never been one of those travelers who goes crazy for gear. I like to pack light and keep things simple. That means no fancy drones, hefty DSLR cameras, bulky headphones, GoPros, or chunky hiking boots. If it doesn’t fit in my 40L backpack, it stays home. It’s why you hardly ever see me write...
The post Are These The Best Travel Clothes? My Review of Unbound Merino appeared first on Nomadic Matt's Travel Site.
Portugal’s picturesque capital is one of my favorite cities in the world. I always enjoy my time wandering its labyrinthine streets, enjoying the stunning ocean views, and sipping an endless flow of wine. Perched on the southern edge of the country’s west coast, Lisbon (or Lisboa, as the locals call it) offers an amazing blend...
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Remember Couchsurfing? It was a website that allowed you to stay with locals (for free) and always had a plethora of events and meetups you could attend no matter where you were in the world. It was one of the best ways to meet locals and travelers on the road. It was one of my...
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If you’re looking for one of the best views on Koh Tao, Top Point is a must. This …
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If you’re looking for an escape from the usual crowds on Koh Tao, Sai Nuan Beach is the …
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If you’re looking for an easy-access, picture-perfect spot to swim & snorkel on Koh Tao, Aow Leuk Beach …
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Krabi, nestled on Thailand’s Andaman Coast, offers a more relaxed and scenic alternative to Phuket, with its stunning …
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Lombok is often overshadowed by its more famous neighbor, Bali, but for beach lovers seeking something special, this …
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From traditional bungalows to beachfront resorts, Sanur the perfect coastal escape away from the crowds. Sanur is a …
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If you’re wondering where to stay in Seminyak, you’ve landed on one of Bali’s most popular beach areas. …
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Have you been dreaming about seeing the Northern Lights or going ice-caving? Iceland is the place for it! …
The post How to Plan an Awesome Trip to Iceland: 11-Step Guide appeared first on We Seek Travel.
When it comes to travel water purifiers, GRAYL has always been synonymous with reliability and ease of use. …
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If you’re planning a trek to K2 Base Camp, get ready for an adventure like no other. Comparing …
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Congratulations, you’ve discovered one of Krabi’s best travel destinations. Here are my favorite things to do in Ao …
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Avoid the crowds in Kuta and enjoy the jungle vibes of Ubud for a quieter, more relaxed stay. …
The post Where to Stay in Ubud, Bali: My Favorite Hotels & Resorts appeared first on We Seek Travel.