Baumkuchen, a tree stump-shaped cake of German origin, has long been a mainstay in Japan. From wedding gifts to everyday desserts found at convenience stores, it is ubiquitous across the country and even more popular than in Germany, often seen as a peculiar phenomenon. This cake was first introduced to Japan on 4 March 1919 at the Hiroshima Industrial Promotion Hall – today known as the Atomic Bomb Dome – by German confectioner Karl Juchheim, who was taken as a prisoner of war at Qingdao in 1914 despite being a civilian. He moved to the port city of Yokohama after his release and founded his own shop in 1922, but trouble followed him. Just one year later, the Kanto region was devasted by a massive earthquake, forcing Juchheim to relocate to Kobe in the west. It was a good location as it had no shortage of foreign customers, but his success came to a halt again when World War II broke out. Karl Juchheim passed away on 14 August 1945, just before the end of the war; his only son Karlheinz had died in a battle in Vienna three month prior, and his wife Elise was deported by the Allied government in 1947. Former employees at Juchheim’s rebuilt the company and kept it going until Elise was allowed to return in 1953, who served as its CEO from 1961 up to her death in 1971. The company was inherited by Haruo Kawamoto, former soccer player and close friend of the Juchheim family. It has since grown to be one of Japan’s beloved confectionery brands, popularizing Baumkuchen among the general public. Today, Juchheim’s main branch in the Motomachi district of Kobe City is a classy shop steeped in history, with a European-style café on the second floor. There are also special Baumkuchens only available at this location, such as the “Meister’s hand-baked Baum” and the Apfelbaum, which contains a whole apple in its center.

Molenbeek-Saint-Jean is a municipality located northwest of the city centre of Brussels. Like the rest of Brussels, it is renovating its urban spaces to provide a pleasant living environment for its residents. In 2014, the Place Communale was renovated. The work included a piece of art by the famous Brussels artist Joëlle Tuerlinckx. As the work was to be installed in the centre of the square, the artist came up with the idea of creating a 'Point Zero', which is a reference to the point from which distances to other cities are measured (as in Leuven ). This concept carries significant symbolic value in a community as multicultural as this one, where nearly one-third of the population has foreign origins. The zero point thus becomes the symbolic starting point for calculating distances to all the countries with which the population has cultural and social ties. The artwork comprises a 12.5-ton block of blue Hainaut stone, which arrived in Molenbeek by boat on January 8, 2014. The choice of material and mode of transport is a reminder that Molenbeek was the point at which the building materials used to construct the capital arrived, creating an additional link with the municipality's history. After being sculpted by Jean Dalemans, the stone was buried in the square's ground. Only the top is visible: a disc with a diameter of 58 cm in the middle of the cobblestones. Therefore, most of the block is invisible underground. The work was the subject of fierce criticism as soon as it was installed: the total cost of purchasing the block, transporting it, carving it and installing it was estimated at €80,000. This is a considerable amount to spend on a piece of art that is buried in the ground and therefore almost invisible. However, this was the artist's intention: for most of the block to be hidden under the cobblestones. According to her, unlike other monuments in public spaces, this monument does not symbolise anything, but rather the moment of its installation — hence its name, 'Moment—Point Zero'. The symbolic significance of this work continues to elude many people, who still consider it a waste of public money. It has already been cited in the press as an example of a work of art whose cost is considered disproportionate. Nevertheless, it is still there today. It is the only permanent piece by this renowned Belgian conceptual artist that can be seen in a public space. Visitors must therefore take its symbolic dimension into account when viewing the work, or they may be disappointed by this stone disc that barely emerges from the ground!

When the printer John Mills dissolved his business partnership with a Mr Green, he changed his business name from Mills and Green to "John Mills Himself" and went about declaring his independence very clearly on the building he purchased in 1918. The name is visible in entryway mosaic floors, and on a brass plaque over the entry emblazoned with "John Mills, Himself, A High Class Printing Business. Conducted by Himself and His Staff. But first of all Good Printing." (Look closely to see an image of the back of his head with the words "This is John. Meet me face to face.") If you haven't yet had enough of John Mills, Himself, walk around to the Charlotte St front of the building and crane your neck to see the words "John Mills Himself" in raised lettering on the parapet at the top of the building. But even the most independent of men cannot keep themselves alive forever, and after John Mills’s death in 1934, his business was continued by his sons, John and Sam Mills.

Once touted as the largest hotel resort in the world, it burned completely to the ground in 1919, likely due to faulty wiring in the installation of electric lights. Because the main structure was built entirely with wood framing, only remnants and ruins of its foundation remain today. The hotel was one of the largest in the United States at the time and could serve more than 1,000 guests per day while in operation. The Put-in-Bay Hotel Company was founded by investor J.K. Tillotson in 1888, with the construction of the hotel beginning shortly thereafter. The hotel opened to guests in 1892, but financial troubles caused it to close in 1893. After several management changes, and operating off-and-on, the hotel was destroyed in a fire in 1919. Shortly after the fire, the state of Ohio purchased the property in 1938 and created South Bass Island State Park, which remains open in the present day. The ruins of the hotel are located within the park's campground and some ruins are scattered among rentable campsites.

The Monastery of Santa María de las Cuevas, known as La Cartuja, is linked to Cristopher Columbus. In fact, in 1509 he was buried there, alongside his son Diego, until 1536, when his remains were transferred to Santo Domingo in the Dominican Republic. Yet something of his voyages to America still endures here. Another son, Hernando Colón, brought ombú seeds from the American continent on one of his father's voyages, which he accompanied. He planted them later in the Monastery's gardens, so the ombú tree of La Cartuja became the first European specimen of this species. The ombú (Phytolacca dioica) is a herbaceous tree native of the Argentine pampas and bordering areas of Uruguay, southern Brazil, and Paraguay. It is characterized by its longevity, its remarkable immunity to insect attacks due to its toxic sap, and its soft trunk containing a large amount of water. This was precisely the problem that nearly killed the tree in 1992, due to a poorly planned restoration. In an attempt to repair the cavities caused by the humidity, technicians from the Andalusian Regional Government applied an obsolete technique: They filled them by injecting polyurethane foam. However it had the opposite effect from the one intended, since the tree absorbed even more water, generating in turn a growing amount of fungus. Fortunately, specialized gardening technicians managed to save the tree by removing the polyurethane foam. Thus, today we can see this five-hundred-years-old ombú tree, close to the statue of Columbus that was erected here in 1887 by the Pickman family, the British owners of the pottery factory that was established in the former monastery.

When you walk along the Chicago Riverwalk between May and October, you may stumble across a bridgehouse that is actually open to the public. This would be the McCormick Bridgehouse & Chicago River Museum, located in the southwest tower of the Michigan Ave Bridge. The Friends of the Chicago River opened the museum in this 5-story tower in 2006. The ground floor contains the gear room, which contain the massive gears and weights that lift the bridge a couple times per week. The remaining floors are dedicated to exhibits on the history and impact of the Chicago River, such as native wildlife in the watershed, and how the river's flow was reversed in 1900.

The _Passing of the Buffalo_ statue might more accurately be called _The Passing Around of the Buffalo Statue_ , as it has now been moved from New Jersey and is at its third location in Muncie, Indiana. Currently, it is appropriately placed in a roundabout, where it can be passed around more conveniently. The beautiful statue of a Native American chief with his foot resting on the skull of a bison was created by renowned sculptor Cyrus Edwin Dallin. Dallin created over 260 statues, many of which depict Native Americans. _The Passing of the Buffalo_ was created in 1929 and installed on the estate of Ethel Geraldine Rockefeller Dodge in Madison, New Jersey, in 1931. Mrs. Dodge died in 1973, and the statue was purchased from her estate in 1975 by Margaret Ball Petty in honor of her late husband, Fred J. Petty. Mr. Petty died in 1949 and had been a director at the Ball Corporation in Muncie. The Ball family, their businesses, and their foundation have been benefactors of Muncie and its charities for many years. In 1976, the statue was placed at the intersection of Charles and Walnut Streets, where Mr. Petty had served as president of Ball Stores. The statue remained there until 1999. The statue was then passed on to the lobby of the Minnetrista Museum and Gardens in Muncie, where it remained until 2007. Its current “passing” is to the roundabout at 599 S. Walnut Street, two blocks south of its original Muncie location. If you are passing through Muncie, take a look around—the statue may be on the move.

In Paris, the 14th arrondissement is rarely visited by tourists. Yet many places there are worth a visit. The Villa Seurat is one of them. Contrary to what its name might suggest, it is not a large and luxurious country house, because in Paris, the term "villa" refers to a street or cul-de-sac lined with individual houses. This one was built between 1920 and 1926 on land that had previously been used for stables and sheds. It is named after the painter Georges Seurat, inventor of pointillism, and is unique in that it houses several studios that were designed from the outset for artists. The villa—and the eight artists' studios it contains—was designed by architect André Lurçat, who was commissioned by his artist friends. Architecturally, the studios he designed for this villa are characterized by : large bay windows to let in light ; high ceilings for working in good conditions, especially for sculpture ; a fairly minimalist modernist style that highlights raw materials such as reinforced concrete, cement, and bricks. Salvador Dali and his muse Gala lived at No. 1 between 1932 and 1934. It was here that he painted his painting The Enigma of William Tell. At No. 7 is the house of the sculptor Chana Orloff. It is worth noting that on the ground floor, the double-height studio opens onto large wooden doors that allowed the large blocks of stone used by the artist to be brought in. At No. 18, Henry Miller began writing his novel Tropic of Cancer in 1931, which was published in 1934 (and banned in France until 1964). Beyond its history, this dead-end street is worth a visit for its charm, especially in spring when it's bursting with flowers. After exploring it, you can continue your stroll in the Parc Montsouris, which is right next door.

The El Desdémona was built in Hamburg and sailed to South America as a merchant ship. As early as 1983, it was severely damaged off the coast of Buenos Aires. A lightning strike destroyed the navigation system, and it ran aground. The crew managed to escape and navigated the ship onward to Tierra del Fuego, the southern tip of Argentina. When the engine also failed, the captain attempted to reach the port of Ushuaia at a slow speed. The shipyard was unable to repair the damage, but the crew continued their journey nonetheless. As we now know, however, they didn't get very far. The goddess of iron and steel ran aground again on a sandbank, water flooded in, and the crew fled to safety. For almost forty years, this fairytale-like vessel has lain dormant, and all salvage attempts have been unsuccessful.

The DDR, the government of the former East Germany, is often described as a piece of eastern Soviet communism in the west. Which is a result of the import of furniture, architecture, and art into a western city. Much of this art has been removed since reunification, but some important pieces persevere. 'Aufbau der Republik' is perhaps the most important of those pieces due to both its location and history. It is installed on the north wall of what is now the finance ministry, but what was once the DDR headquarters and the Nazi air ministry before that. During the times of the DDR, this meant that a distinction needed to be made between the new government and the buildings’ old occupants. This was partially done by means of flags, but also with a large socialist mural. The mural was installed in early ’50s after the design of Max Lingner, who won the competition set to replace the Nazi imagery that was at the same location. Although heavily modified to better show socialist ideals, the piece was still largely Lingner's. It was painted on porcelain tiles and depicts the progress that the DDR promised for the city. Showing happy youths, factory workers, and a utopia in the making.

Run the Island Line Trail to its northernmost section and you'll find the geological marvel that is the Colchester Causeway: a three mile-long land bridge delivering pedestrians and cyclists to South Hero Island. On this path, you'll be able to see Lake Champlain only a few feet from you on either side, with breathtaking views of Stave, Sunset, and Law Islands to the west. This land bridge was originally built by the Rutland-Canadian Railroad for trains to bring passengers northward through the Champlain Islands to Montreal, but after service ended in 1961, the city repurposed it for public use. To allow boat traffic, the causeway ends about 2.7 miles across the lake in a 200-foot gap, known to locals as "the cut." A bike ferry from Local Motion operates during the summer to shuttle cyclists and pedestrians across. Interested parties can run a yellow flag up a pole on either side of the gap to request service.

Arcades are a thing of the past in most of the west but still quite alive in Japan, though mostly as modern facilities with digital games. But how did arcades look 50-100 years ago? In some places you can see for yourself. The Dagashiya Game Museum is exactly such a place, hidden away right next to a temple. It functions as a candy shop as well as a Showa-era arcade. All machines work on either 10 yen coins or custom tokens, both of which can be exchanged at the counter. The games range from predecessors of the famous pachinko game, to skill-based ball balancing and coin flicking games. However, what might surprise a westerner used to a strong split between gambling and games for kids, is the sheer amount of roulette-like games that simply let you spin a wheel for a chance at some more coins. The winnings, if any, can be exchanged for various candies. Those who lose it all can still buy a treat afterwards.

The decorated tombs that have survived from ancient Egypt share detailed biographical information about the their occupants. From the elaborate wall-paintings and hieroglyphic inscriptions, we can learn a great deal about the deceased—their names and ages, their professions and accomplishments, the size and composition of their families. In the 1960s, archaeologists were flabbergasted to discover a tomb that was not like the others. Instead of a husband and wife, the tomb had been built for two men named Ni-Ankh-Khnum and Khnum-Hotep, who had worked together as manicurists and hairdressers at the royal court during the Fifth Dynasty. More than 4000 years ago, two men had decided to spend eternity together. Ni-Ankh-Khnum and Khnum-Hotep commissioned an unusual series of wall paintings to decorate their tomb. In addition to scenes from daily life of the time—which are common in the Saqqara necropolis—they included several double portraits in which they were depicted holding hands and embracing. These paintings have survived and can be still seen in the tomb today. Ever since the tomb’s discovery, it has been the subject of debate between archaeologists. Were Ni-Ankh-Khnum and Khnum-Hotep close friends and colleagues who made the unusual decision to build a joint tomb for their two families? Were they brothers—perhaps identical twins—who posed for a double-portrait in the tomb where they were buried alongside their extended family? Or, as visitors to the tomb often wonder, were Ni-Ankh-Khnum and Khnum-Hotep the first gay couple in recorded history? Archaeologists continue to study the tomb and its enigmatic wall paintings. But one thing is clear: whether Ni-Ankh-Khnum and Khnum-Hotep were friends or brothers or lovers, the affection that they felt for one another has endured for more than four millennia. These two men continue to open our eyes to the richness and complexity of ancient Egyptian society.

The mounds on the LSU campus were originally built at a prominent landmark along the Mississippi River that would have been recognizable to any traveler 11,000 years ago when construction most likely began. The mounds were periodically built and modified over thousands of years, even while the River shifted its course. Experts don't know why the Native American builders created them, or how they used them. But people believe that they may have been a meeting place and a site for sacred and secular events. Twenty-first century research has indicated that these mounds are older than previously proven with scientific techniques, suggesting that they may be the oldest extant human-built structures in the Americas. In the century before these findings were reported, students and families regularly frolicked and picnicked on the mounds, sometimes using cardboard, cafeteria trays, and other items to sled down the mounds during snow, football games, or rain. Now the mounds are protected by fencing and monitoring, and the campus is investing in preservation and conservation activities. LSU is working to educated its students and the public to encourage respect for the mounds for both their historic value and their sacred and cultural importance to modern Native people.

Deep inside Germany’s Eifel National Park lies Wollseifen, a deserted village whose silence tells two very different stories. First mentioned in medieval records, Wollseifen was once a normal rural community of farmers and shepherds perched on a plateau above the Urft Reservoir. But in 1946, just after World War II, the British Army ordered all 500 inhabitants to evacuate — not because of war, but because their village was needed as a military training ground. Within months, homes, barns, and the village school stood empty. Shortly afterwards, British forces constructed a bizarre mock village, a cluster of windowless concrete blocks meant to simulate urban combat zones. These stark training structures still stand today, lending Wollseifen the unsettling atmosphere of a film set abandoned after shooting. Nature has started reclaiming the site: trees grow through ruined doorways, and moss covers the walls of the old church, the village’s last intact original building. Hikers who wander through speak of the strange contrast between the peaceful national park around them and the hollow, echoing shell of a community that vanished overnight. Today, Wollseifen is freely accessible to visitors exploring the Eifel, a haunting reminder of a village erased not by war, but by the quiet decisions of the postwar military bureaucracy.

There are plenty of scenic roads that lead up mountains. What is decidedly less common is a road tunnel that ascends inside the mountain, such as the Drammen Spiral in Norway. Shaped like many parking garage ramps, it rises over 130 meters in a helix shape found nowhere else in the world. (Although there are other loop tunnels, none have two loops on top of each other, much less six!) Capped at the top by a restaurant and viewpoint over Drammen, the Spiral is the vision of City Engineer Eivind Olsen, who was concerned about the environmental impact of quarrying in the area. He proposed the tunnel as an alternative means of acquiring stone while creating a tourist attraction in the process. Opened in 1961, the tunnel was more recently renovated in 2019-20, adding colorful lighting that changes throughout the day. Halfway up the spiral, look out for a family of "Spiral trolls" constructed of wood and coiled rope. They are the mascots of the tunnel, which can be purchased as a souvenir doll.

Forte Real de São Filipe is a 16th century fortress in the city of Cidade Velha, Cabo Verde. The fortress provides a grand view over the first capital and the Atlantic Ocean around it. It was once built to protect the capital, then called Ribeira Grande, from pirates and competing realms. The capital was eventually moved to Praia (the current capital), while the fortress remained. It eventually became the first and, at this time, the only UNESCO world heritage site of Cabo Verde. The fortress is one of the Seven Wonders of Portuguese Origin in the World. It completed the existing defense system of multiple older forts. The fortress included such as the residence of the Governor, the garrison, the prison and the chapel of São Gonçalo.

As you drive through the scenic Japanese prefecture of Yamagata, take a detour to a place that feels wonderfully out of place. An unexpected Korean complex, complete with heavenly generals, K-pop merch, and food that will teleport your taste buds to Seoul. The roadside station for the village of Tozawa is a true cultural portal. Its name Koryo-kan (高麗館), or "Goryeo Hall," is a graceful nod to the Korean dynasty that ruled from 918 to 1392. The arrival is a spectacle. The majestic, curved roofs of a Korean palace suddenly rise beside the road, guarded by stone lions and wooden statues depicting Celestial Generals. Two “Great Generals of Heaven” and two “Female Generals of Earth” stand eternal watch over one of the area's most stunning views: the Mogami River making a perfect right-angle bend below. But the real magic begins inside. This is not just a market; it's a treasure trove of Korean culture. The shelves are a delightful chaos of unique snacks, fizzy drinks, and beauty products you'd normally have to fly to Seoul to find. Imagine a bag of shrimp crackers next to a K-pop idol's face on a pillowcase. It’s a Korean convenience store dream dropped into the Japanese countryside. Venture out the back to discover the palace's "inner sanctum" where more stone statues and celestial guardians keep watch. Here, the area's traditional craft of kokeshi dolls depicts a king and queen. These towering figures represent a eautiful, silent fusion of Korean tradition and Yamagata artistry. When hunger calls, the station's hanok-style restaurant answers. Sitting under a gorgeous turquoise ceiling and digging into a piping hot stone bowl of bibimbap, you might just forget you're in Japan. The reason that a Korean complex exists in this small Japanese village is that in the mid 20th-century many Japanese men in this remote part of the countryside found Korean wives. This led to a significant Korean population in the area. Those wives even invented "Tozawa Style Kimchi." This station was built in the 1990s to celebrate that heritage. Before you leave, know that the poetic Mogami River offers its own adventure. A short drive away, you can take a boat ride along these historic waters, which once carried valuable safflower to Kyoto and even inspired the famous haiku master, Matsuo Basho. So, definitely pull over in Tozawa. It’s a multicultural detour that transforms a simple road trip into an unforgettable discovery.

In a town preoccupied with literally tearing down its past like Houston, a tree that's been around for four centuries should be more significant. Instead the live oak blocks away from Allen's landing in downtown has the more sinister but false stigma attached to it as a hanging tree. It even had a plaque in place calling it the old hanging oak until its removal in the 1990s. While there are some true hanging trees in and around Houston, this old oak was proven to not be one of them and should be more known as one of if not the oldest living thing in the city.

“There’s not much there anymore, it’s pretty much just a crossroads.” I read the posts online telling me not to bother, but I wanted to go anyway. Certainly I could feel something as we got close: the sense of desperation, of ruin and abandon. So I drove with a small group of friends deep into eastern Pennsylvania—coal country—through towns with names like Frackville, Pottsville, Ashland. Many downtowns had at least one house that had burned to ruin and been left abandoned. It was early June, but clouds covered the sky and we drove through a slight but persistent rain. We were on our way to Centralia, Pennsylvania. The Burning Town. The coal that made this valley famous accreted in layers over tens of thousands of years, organic swamp matter turning first to peat, and then compressed over millennia into billions of tons of anthracite—the densest and most pure form of coal—the stuff that made this region of Pennsylvania famous. Mines first opened here in 1856 and Centralia was incorporated as a town a decade later. Through the years bitter labor disputes broke out over exploitative treatment of the (largely Irish immigrant) miners, leading to regular outbreaks of violence. Add to that the boom and bust cycle of the coal industry—and the environmental desolation and impoverishment of the region—and you end up with a town that is deeply scarred, both literally and metaphorically. But the story that made Centralia famous began in May 1962, when officials set fire to the trash in a local landfill in an open strip-mine pit. This wasn’t the first year they’d done this, and there were firefighters stationed to ensure the blaze didn’t get out of control. After two days, the trash fire seemed to have burned itself out. But this time, for whatever reason (the actual cause was never fully determined), something went wrong. The landfill burn had lit the coal mines beneath the town. Over the years, numerous attempts were made to put out the fire. Nothing worked. In all, federal, state, and local governments spent over $3.3 million on the blaze, which raged on, uncontrollably. Over time, residents reported that their basements were strangely hot, and in 1979, the mayor John Coddington lowered a thermometer into an underground fuel tank at the gas station he owned, only to discover that the gasoline was 172 degrees Fahrenheit. And then on Valentine’s Day, 1981, a twelve-year old boy fell into a four-foot sinkhole that opened up in his grandmother’s backyard, barely rescued by his fourteen year-old cousin. A plume of lethal carbon monoxide bellowed out from the hole. Realizing that topsoil was the only thing separating the town from a massive, raging inferno, the federal government finally decided to clear the town. The United States Congress allocated money for a buyout, which nearly all of the town’s 1,000 or so residents took. By 1990, 63 people remained in the town. Two years later, governor Bob Casey invoked eminent domain and condemned all the remaining buildings. By 2021, only five homes were still left standing. I had come here expecting that we would find ruin and neglect, toxicity and destitution. I expected Centralia to be an exemplar of the _eerie:_ A place where once there had been a town, place of thriving life, and instead now was only absence, an emptiness, a void. What we found instead, strangely, was beauty. Centralia, despite everything I’d been led to expect, was thriving. * * * The Burning Town has come to stand in as a kind of exemplar of a post-industrial wasteland, a place where human folly reached its apex, scorching the land. All but abandoned, it became known primarily for the vents that poured smoke from the fire below, and for Graffiti Highway—a closed stretch of Route 61 covered in tags, doodles of genitalia, and declarations of love. When adapting the video game franchise _Silent Hill_ for film, screenwriter Roger Avary used Centralia as a model for both the town’s backstory and its look. For years it drew curious onlookers and legend trippers, while the name “Centralia” itself became an almost byword for late capitalism: a term for that mixture of rapacious profit-seeking and thoughtless stewardship that created America’s own Chernobyl. Locals see the story a little differently, though their version borrows from similar themes. Phil, a tour guide at Pioneer Tunnel in neighboring Ashland, pointed out that while the grim toil of the mines claimed many human lives, their closure left the valley with little else to offer. He explained how the families that didn’t leave Centralia were harassed, as government forces tried to drive them off their land. Those that stayed had to go to court to defend their right to live on this abandoned land, all because they wanted to keep the mineral rights to their property. So now, people like Phil assume that the government is just waiting them out. Once they’re gone, putting out the fire will be easy enough. “They’ll take all that red hot coals, but also they’re going to get that rich anthracite coal,” he told us. “And I’m sure they’ll sell that. But are the people or the relatives going to get anything? It’s very doubtful. It’ll probably go to the federal government. Or the coal baron, maybe?” His voice, I noticed after a while, has a peculiar kind of nostalgia for the worst times in the world. Like so many others in these towns, he seems to long for a return, another chance for Pennsylvanians to throw their children back into the maw of the mine. Anything for a chance to get the coal jobs will come back. Anything in service of waking the Mountain once more. When we finally got to Centralia, we were met not with destruction or despair, but with what seemed at first simply like nothing. The streets are still laid out, and there are still a handful of houses left, but the graffiti highway has been covered over. Any abandoned buildings have long been torn down. It’s why, if you ask around these days, folks will tell you there’s nothing to see in Centralia. “I drove through Centralia 2 weeks ago,” one local commented on a Reddit thread. “I didn’t realize till after I had already passed it. That should tell you everything you need to know.” In another thread a different local commented, “What is the draw? It’s just empty ground now.” But emptiness can tell its own story. Standing on the empty streets of Centralia, I thought mainly of Cal Flynn’s _Islands of Abandonment: Nature Rebounding in the Post-Human Landscape._ Flynn travels the world to places that have been forsworn by humanity: not the pristine, untouched wilderness, but places abandoned, like Chernobyl and the exclusion zone that divides the island of Cyprus between its Greek and Turkish halves. Places where, Flynn writes, “nature has been allowed to work unfettered.” Such places are often thriving with plant and animal life. Abandonment, she writes, “ _is_ rewilding, in a very pure sense, as humans draw back and nature reclaims what once was hers.” What Flynn makes clear is that while we tend to think of human activity on the landscape as not only damaging but _irreversible_ , this may not always be the case. We believe, in our hubris, that we have the power to wreck nature for good. And while it’s true that places like the Bikini Atoll and Chernobyl will be radioactive for unimaginable human lifetimes, that doesn’t mean that other species haven’t moved in and, left unmolested by human activity, found ways to flourish. Flynn’s book catalogs a variety of ways in which nature has reclaimed places that we’ve left behind, often with surprising speed. When Estonia, for example, became independent of the Soviet Union, some 245 million square miles of collectivist farmlands were simply abandoned. They weren’t plowed over, repurposed, or re-seeded. They simply were left alone. Flora immediately went to work: soon these fields were covered in wildflowers and weeds, and then thorn bushes and brambles, and then the skinny shoots of young spruce trees. Now, thirty-five years later, Estonia is now one of the most forested countries in Europe, having nearly doubled the size of its forests by doing … nothing. Half the country is now a forest, and over 90 percent of those forests have naturally regenerated. When I say that Centralia is _thriving,_ this is what I mean. It is a landscape pulsing with life, overflowing with lush greenery. The old grid of streets is still visible, and there are still a handful of houses with carefully mowed lawns sitting in defiance. But everything else is the wild and vital province of nature. Turkeyfoot, broom-sedge, and switchgrass and silky dogwood. Young white oaks and linden trees push their way through this cacophony of life. Everywhere that’s not asphalt is a riot of green in every possible shade. And all of this is possible, at least in part, because the state and federal governments have forbidden any new human settlement, giving the wild and the lush and untrammeled room to grow. Not all of this is just nature. In 2021, the Eastern Pennsylvania Coalition for Abandoned Mine Reclamation planted 250 apple trees in the hope of attracting butterflies. EPCAMR has hosted annual trash clean-ups in the town, but a few years ago turned to planting and furthering the former town’s potential as an unofficial wildlife sanctuary. “We’re trying to get that area designated as a monarch way station eventually,” Robert “Bobby” Hughes, executive director of EPCAMR said at the time. But as vital as this work is, it seems primarily that the rewilding of Centralia is simply the work of leaving it alone. Standing in what was once a small, otherwise forgettable town, I came to understand how folly, mistake, calamitous hubris, neglect, and plain stupidity—could all be weapons in an arsenal to rewild and reforest the Earth, a future waiting in places we mistakenly believe we have irredeemably scarred. * * * Beyond the town itself, the thing people have come to mourn here is the Graffiti Highway, which for years was a strange destination before it was covered over in 2020. It began, as these things often do, as spontaneous tagging and defacement. But over time, more taggers added their names, their designs, their art, and their stories, until it had become a makeshift historical record of the people who live here. Over time, it had begun to encroach on the natural history that was also unfolding, spilling out beyond the asphalt and into the forest, as trees and plants started to get defaced. It became an attractive nuisance, repeated bonfires and ATV crashes straining local resources, so when coal company Pagnotti Enterprises bought the land in 2018, they chose to bury the road in dirt and erased it for good. There is now, in the words of many Redditors, no reason to go to Centralia. But the company’s decision also obliterated what some saw as a vital piece in the region’s history. Pagnotti’s reviews on Google are uniformly one-star ratings alongside comments like “You ruined graffiti highway,” “ruined a landmark, nice piles of dirt, go die,” and so on. For those who contributed to the Graffiti Highway, it had marked loves and losses, honored the dead and celebrated the living, all in a hundred different colors. (Park Street in Centralia has since begun to take the place of the old Graffiti Highway, decorated with a variety of tags, but at the moment it has nowhere near the density of the original Graffiti Highway. Some monuments take time to rebuild.) Kutztown University professor Deryl Johnson has called the story of Graffiti Highway an “epilogue” to the story of Centralia itself, but I’m not sure I agree. The story of Centralia is still very much unfolding—it did not end in 1982, and it did not end in 2020. Now that the highway is gone, the tourist attraction draw of this place has waned, leaving even more space for the natural world to reclaim the land. A new chapter has begun, and there may be other chapters in the story yet to come—chapters whose shape and direction we can only guess at. * * * If you think of Centralia in terms of human habitation, it’s a ghost town, a few stubborn holdouts fighting against entropy and inertia. If you think of Centralia in terms of legend tripping and ruin porn, it’s nothing at all, barely a wide spot in the road. But if you think of Centralia as an unintended nature preserve, it is absolutely bursting with life and potential and possibility. Yet still the ground burns. Just out of the grid of streets that was once the town, down Big Mine Run Road, are the vents themselves: small holes in the sides of the hills like something out of Tolkien that lead down to inferno below. These days, the smoke itself is rarely visible, but when rain filters down to the fires, it comes back out as steam. So on the rainy day of our visit, we watched as these vents let out a small, steady stream of white steam, proof of the heat somewhere beneath our feet. It was an odd sensation. The wisps seemed peaceful, laconic, almost soothing. And at the same time, it seemed as though at any moment the entire valley would explode. Somehow it felt like both of these things at once. Looking at these gentle wisps of smoke, it is difficult to picture the smoldering inferno they emerged from. A fire that has raged out of control for sixty years, unending and older than most people you know. You try and you fail every time. Which is to say, Centralia’s mine fire is a thing that should not be. I can describe to you its history, the actions of the people involved. I can describe to you what the surface looks like, the species of plants, the words etched into the tombstones at the Odd Fellows Cemetery. But the secret, raging, burning heart of the Valley remains elusive. The plumes are a subtle reminder, easy to miss, that there is a reason for this pristine, thriving wildness all around us. That the coal mines underground are a price that has to be paid, paid to an underworld god that must be forever fed.

A bridge built across the Guadiana River by the Romans in the 1st Century AD now serves as a pedestrian connection across the river. It's seen everything from the Romans to the Visigoths to the Moors. Restoration work was done in the 7th century and the 17th century. These days it's a quiet, though over 700m long, connection between the Alcazaba and the far side of the river.

The Marshall Britannia steam monument in Yogyakarta is a significant historical display located at the east entrance of the Yogyakarta Railway Station (also known as Stasiun Tugu). It is not a traditional railway locomotive, but rather a Marshall single-cylinder portable steam engine, a type typically used for running equipment in the sugar industry. This model was built by Marshall Sons & Co. Ltd. between the late 19th and mid-20th centuries. The monument is now located at the north wing of the Stasiun Tugu entrance, just across from the end of Jalan Malioboro, which is the iconic main street and heart of the largest tourist and commercial district in Yogyakarta. The station also features a D301 22 hydraulic diesel locomotive monument at its south entrance, underscoring the history of rail transport in the area.

Tucked away from the bustling streets of Antwerp's historic center, the Vlaeykensgang is a genuine portal to the 16th century. Dating back to 1591, this near-secret labyrinth of alleys and courtyards is one of the last remaining examples of a medieval "gang" (alley) in the city. To find it, one must pass through an inconspicuous wooden gate at Oude Koornmarkt 16, which looks more like a private entrance than a public passage. Once inside, the noise of the city fades, replaced by the quiet charm of cobblestone paths, ivy-covered brick walls, and tiny, picturesque houses. Historically, this alley was home to the city's poorest residents, particularly the cobblers (shoemakers) who managed the nearby guild. Legend also states that it served as a vital shortcut for the cathedral's bell-ringers (_klokkenluiders_), allowing them to quickly reach the church when the bells needed to be rung. Today, the alley is meticulously restored and houses private residences and a fine-dining restaurant, but it remains a publicly accessible oasis of calm that many visitors walk straight past, unaware of the history hidden just meters away.

It’s hard to miss the Big Texan Steak Ranch. There’s the bright yellow building, the giant fiberglass cow and of course the restaurant’s 90-foot-tall cowboy sign. Of course to call this eatery and brewery a “restaurant” vastly understates its place as a historical icon along Route 66 in Amarillo, Texas. There are many reasons to stop here for a meal, but its Texas-size challenge is surely the wildest and most entertaining. It presents the question: _Can you eat a shrimp cocktail, a baked potato, a salad, a buttered roll and—drumroll—a 72-ounce steak in one hour?_ The 72-ounce steak challenge, as it’s called, has been bringing diners in since 1962, when the challenge was first held. That was in its first location, along official Route 66; though its current spot on Interstate Highway 40 follows roughly the original highway’s path. Kansan R.J. Lee recognized back in the middle of the last century that other people shared his enthusiasm for the storied culture of cowboys and ranchers, so when he opened his restaurant, he reserved a big table in the center for them. This way, visitors to the area could experience big steaks amid an authentically big Texas scene. Legend holds that in 1962, one hostler ate the equivalent of 72 ounces of steak and claimed he was still hungry, so he was served a baked potato, shrimp cocktail, salad, and a bread roll. Anyone who could do the same within one hour could get their dinner free. The opportunity spread through newspaper headlines and word of mouth and business boomed. That boom halted in 1968 when I-40 replaced Route 66 as the major artery through the area. Suddenly patrons disappeared, and Lee, now with eight children and no bank loan, rebuilt the Big Texan on I-40 with scrap wood and reclaimed materials. It again became a success, despite a fire in the 1970s that destroyed part of the building. When it was rebuilt, the restaurant was grander than ever, with two-story seating for 480 guests, a gift shop, an arcade and a stage where the 72-ounce challengers chowed down. Two of Lee’s sons took on the business in the 1990s. The restaurant continues to be popular today, as one of the sons has noted: Cowboys don’t go out of style. Indeed, the traditions and the challenge continue. The menu features 15 different steak cuts (not counting the Little Texan sirloin on the kids’ menu), and a variety of non-steak items including fried pickles, chicken and waffles, and other Texas specialities. One of the restaurant’s servers noted in 2025 that the restaurant has about 10 to 15 challengers a day with one to two winners a week. More than 10,000 people have won the challenge out of about 100,000 that have given it a go. The only question now is: Will you be next?

**Listen and subscribe onApple Podcasts, Spotify, and all major podcast apps.** * * * I’m Kelly McEvers, and this is Atlas Obscura, a celebration of the world’s strange, incredible, and wondrous places. So I don’t know about you, but I like to keep track of all the places that I have visited, say, in the past year. I have lists of all the countries that I visit in a given region. Each year I go back to my handwritten calendar planner book because, yes, I still write everything down. I have kept track of all my trips, and that helps me remember all the places I’ve visited and the people I saw. Most people I know are, of course, more advanced than this. They actually keep digital records like lists of restaurants where they want to go or Google Maps with pins on places. In case you have somehow stumbled upon this podcast and you don’t know too much about Atlas Obscura, we actually have a map, an Atlas, filled with thousands upon thousands of unusual places across the globe. Each place is submitted by a person, and it is a fun tool to use whether you are on vacation or you want to get to know your own hometown better. My guest today has visited over 1,000 of these places. Her name is Caroline Mazel-Carlton, and she has been working toward that goal for more than 10 years. This project, Visiting 1,000 places, was about more than just taking items off the list. She says it helped save her life. Caroline, welcome. _This is an edited transcript of the_ _Atlas Obscura Podcast_ _: a celebration of the world’s strange, incredible, and wondrous places. Find the show on_ _Apple Podcasts_ _,__Spotify_ _, and all major podcast apps.__This episode contains discussions of suicidal thoughts. If you or someone you know is struggling, contact the Suicide Crisis Hotline by calling or texting 988._ **Caroline Mazel-Carlton:** Oh, I’m getting teary already. It’s so good to be here. Thank you, Kelly. **Kelly McEvers:** Yeah, welcome. So talk about your first ever visit to an Atlas Obscura place. **Caroline Mazel-Carlton:** Yeah. So one of the first times that I remember using the Atlas Obscura was when I wanted to take my now-husband on a romantic interlude, like a nice weekend away. And so I was looking for spots—bed and breakfasts—and the Atlas Obscura was so helpful because it showed me that not too far away in Fall River, Massachusetts, you can find Lizzie Borden’s house. **Kelly:** In case you’re not familiar, in 1892, Lizzie Borden allegedly murdered her parents, Abby and Andrew Borden, in their house with an axe. Lizzie was acquitted. And Caroline believes she was innocent. But the whole thing has become a bit of a folk story. And the house where the murders took place still stands now as this untraditional bed and breakfast. **Caroline:** They had this whole getaway that you could have and sleep in Lizzie Borden’s house. They had dummies set up, sort of positioned where, Andrew Borden, what he would have looked like after the crime had been committed. So it was this beautiful Victorian house full of wonderful Victorian hair art, which I’m a big fan of Victorian hair art as well—some great specimens of that there. So it was just an amazing experience. **Kelly:** And I would imagine that your now husband was into it? **Caroline:** Oh, yeah, yeah. It was sort of like a litmus test in a way. **Kelly:** I was going to say, if he passed that, then he knew he was a keeper. **Caroline:** There’s a beautiful picture of us taken where we were sitting on this like Victorian couch and we have the dummy representing Andrew Borden’s bloody corpse splayed out across our laps. And we’re just brimming with young love. And it’s such a beautiful photograph. **Kelly:** Yeah. I love it. You’re like, this is the one for me. **Caroline:** Absolutely. And I did try, when we got married, I tried to convince my mom to let me use that photo for our save the date. But she said, “No, I’m not into the idea of this bloody corpse photo.” So we ended up using a picture from another trip we took to Paris. **Kelly:** Nice. And I would love to just know where your urge to go places started. What was one of your most memorable trips you took as a kid? **Caroline:** So my family growing up, we weren’t the type of family that went to the same beach or the same lake house every year for vacation. One of my family mottos was, “We’ll go anywhere once.” **Kelly:** Oh, I love that. **Caroline:** And so my dad has always been a history buff, but he’s never shied away from the weirder and grittier parts of American history. Some of my early memories are definitely wandering around graveyards. I remember seeing the taxidermied horse of Stonewall Jackson in some weird museum in Virginia. One place we went, and sadly, you can’t go here anymore. My dad has sort of, like, a dark streak, like, dark humor. And he became obsessed with the story of this guy named Floyd Collins, who was a cave explorer that actually got trapped and died in the Mammoth Cave system. So my dad and I actually did some caving together and visited the museum that honors this man. A tribute to explorers everywhere, but sadly he did not make it out of the cave. **Kelly:** Mm-hmm. You actually set this goal of trying to visit 1,000 Atlas Obscura places over a decade ago in 2012. And for so many people, you know, travel and seeing the world, there’s all these reasons we do it, but a lot of it is like: I want a change in perspective, or I want to learn more about this culture. I want to be wowed. For you, it sounds like there was a really kind of specific reason that you did this. Can you take us back to that time and talk about what was going on in your life? **Caroline:** So for me, I grew up experiencing a lot of bullying over how I looked or the way that I acted. And I started to struggle a lot with thoughts of suicide. And in fact, for certain parts of my life I was hospitalized and was in treatment programs where you’re not allowed to leave places like that. So it’s kind of a smaller existence. For me, it was always trying to figure out, how do I survive? How do I find a way to exist in this world? And what I realized is, for a lot of us that grapple with suicidal thoughts, it’s not truly that we want to literally die, but that the life that we’re living needs to end. It’s sort of this desire to be transformed in a way. For me, trying to figure out how to exist in the world has always been a bit of a battle in and of itself. And I remember one time seeing a book on my uncle. My uncle Doug also loved to travel the world. And he had a book called _1,000 Places to See Before You Die._ **Kelly:** Okay. **Caroline:** And I thought about that. And I thought about the power of saying to myself, you know what? You can’t die today because there’s still places that you haven’t seen yet. So I used that book for a while, but then when I discovered Atlas Obscura, I was like, these sites are actually more interesting to me. They’re more accessible. They’re weirder. As I visit Atlas Obscura sites, I often learn about weird people like myself. I’ve seen amazing outsider art. So reaching a thousand Atlas Obscura sites before I died became really, really important to me. **Kelly:** Since then, Caroline has visited Atlas Obscura places around the world, from the grave of Johnny Appleseed in Fort Wayne, Indiana, to a temple complex in Pune, India, with 500 statues of Lord Ganesh. Once, on a 16-hour layover in Hong Kong, she left the airport and took a tram over the mountains to see the world's largest-seated bronze Buddha. She’s been to the Icelandic Phallological Museum in Reykjavik and the world’s largest Czech egg in Wilson, Kansas, and a taxidermy shop in Paris that Pablo Picasso and Salvador Dali would visit for inspiration. Taxidermy holds a special place in Caroline’s heart. **Caroline:** There’s one Atlas Obscura site I’m going to give a shout out to, Ole’s Big Game Steakhouse in Nebraska, where you can be surrounded by taxidermy and also you can eat at the same time. **Kelly:** Which, not going to lie, doesn’t sound great to some people, but I love it. Today, Caroline works in suicide prevention. with an organization that does peer support, advocacy, and training for harm reduction. And she brought her 1,000 places goal into that work. Caroline has led trainings around the world, and sometimes on these trips, she and her colleagues will visit Atlas Obscura sites together. Caroline says it is really hard to choose a favorite memory. **Caroline:** Oh, there are so many. I remember one time we were doing an alternatives to suicide training and we were in Tacoma, Washington, and we actually found on Atlas Obscura the grave of Kurt Cobain, who was someone that I looked up to when I was younger, one of my favorite musicians, and who did die by suicide. But we went there together and it felt like such a special place to be there and honor him and his role in our lives and the way he could give voice to pain in a way that other people could connect with. I also remember a time where I was giving a talk at The Hague in the Netherlands and we visited a museum. I think it’s called Museum of the Mind, which had been a psychiatric hospital. But then they filled it with art, beautiful art made from former psychiatric patients. So going there and to some of the Van Gogh sites. And it’s just been incredible to do that with some of my colleagues who’ve also struggled with thoughts of suicide. And I really look at this achievement of reaching a thousand sites as something that we did together. And it felt really special because it was all connected to the journey of healing and embracing our weirdness and our desire to live in a world that’s not always, you know, normative. **Kelly:** So, I mean, you hit the goal, right? You’re over 1,000. You’re at 1,048, to be exact. So what’s next? I mean, how do you, you know, where do you go from there? Do you set a new goal? Are you just going to keep on keeping on at this point? Do you feel like you’re going to travel differently now? **Caroline:** Yeah. Well, after meeting the goal, I was like, I can rest a little bit because I honestly thought I’m 43. So I thought I would be at least 50 before I hit 1,000. but I hit it much more quickly than I thought I would. But the thing about Atlas Obscura is there’s always more you can do. And one of the things that I really encourage everyone listening to do is to add sites to the Atlas yourself. It’s a thrill for me to do that. I remember one time I was working in Brazil and we were just in this little town that had no Atlas Obscura sites, but I’m like, I’m going to find something. And I found this guy with a little, he had a cell phone store, but then he had sort of in the back rooms, all these historical communication devices. Even one of the first Morse code devices and a phonograph. And we got to, through broken English and broken Portuguese, I wrote an article and posted that on the Atlas, and I checked it today, and now eight people have been there. When you add a site to the Atlas, you really do change people’s lives. You know, I don’t struggle as much in my life anymore as when I started because the world just seems more weird and welcoming. **Kelly:** Caroline Mazel-Carlton, thank you so much for sharing your story and thank you for the work that you do helping other people too. **Caroline:** Absolutely. I just seek to make this place more welcoming and, you know, people are struggling. My organization, we have alternatives to suicide support groups. There are places you can go to talk where people will listen and not shame you or judge you and where we acknowledge that there’s many paths to healing. And sometimes that path to healing means walking around a really weird taxidermy store and that’s okay. **Kelly:** While eating a steak. **Caroline:** Yes. I’m here for it. **Kelly:** That was Caroline Mazel-Carlton. She has visited 1,048 Atlas Obscura places. No doubt many more to come. We will put a link to the Atlas in our show notes, so maybe you can start ticking off your own list of 1,000 places. Also, if you or someone you know is struggling, you can contact the 988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline.