Flight attendants make our journeys through the sky safer and more comfortable. Yet they do more than just serve peanuts and soda; they’re trained to respond to safety and medical emergencies, necessary skills for cruising at 35,000 feet. However, modern flight attendants don’t have to have in-depth medical training the way the first American in-air staff did — the earliest commercial airlines equipped with flight attendants required their staff to be registered nurses.
While doctors often make the diagnoses, it’s nurses who do much of the hands-on work of caring for patients — which is why it’s a good thing there are so many of them. The U.S. has three times as many registered nurses as doctors.
The first flight attendants to board U.S. commercial flights were led by Ellen Church, a nurse who was also a licensed aviator. Unable to find work as a pilot due to gender discrimination, Church found another way into the sky by pitching airlines the concept of the “flight stewardess,” who could use her nursing skills to aid sick or injured passengers while also easing nerves at a time when flying was still somewhat dangerous and often uncomfortable for passengers. Boeing Air Transport tested Church’s idea in May 1930, hiring Church and seven other nurses for flights between San Francisco and Chicago (with 13 stops in between). In air, the attendants were tasked with serving meals, cleaning the plane’s interior, securing the seats to the floor, and even keeping passengers from accidentally opening the emergency exit door. After a successful three-month stint, other airlines picked up Church’s idea, putting out calls for nurses in their early 20s to join the first flight crews — standard requirements until World War II, when nurses overwhelmingly joined the war effort, leaving room for more women of all backgrounds to enter the aviation field.
Most commercial airplanes are painted white to reflect sunlight and keep the plane cool.
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Florence Nightingale’s parents opposed her dream of becoming a nurse.
Florence Nightingale is often recognized as the mother of modern nursing, though if her parents had their way, she never would have jump-started the profession as we know it today. At 16 years old, Nightingale became determined to care for the ill and injured, believing it was her calling. Her parents, however, opposed the idea, arguing it was a job inappropriate for a woman of their upper-class standing. Despite being forbidden from pursuing a medical career, Florence enrolled in a German training school for teachers and nurses, eventually returning to London three years later as a hospital nurse. When the Crimean War erupted in 1853, Nightingale’s path through history followed, with her innovative nursing techniques and quest to improve hospital cleanliness eventually seen as a game changer in medical treatment — one that would even be recognized by Queen Victoria.
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Nicole Garner Meeker is a writer and editor based in St. Louis. Her history, nature, and food stories have also appeared at Mental Floss and Better Report.
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Original photo by Pictorial Press Ltd/ Alamy Stock Photo
The scientific name Nessiteras rhombopteryx may look more or less like any other. As with many Linnaean labels, the species name rhombopteryx references the creature’s overall appearance — in this case, its diamond-shaped fins. But there’s one key difference here: The creature it describes doesn’t exist (probably). Nessiteras rhombopteryx, or “Ness monster with diamond-shaped fins,” is the proposed taxonomic moniker of the Loch Ness monster, also known as Nessie. As a brief cryptozoology refresher, Nessie is a fabled reptilian monster believed to reside in a lake called Loch Ness in the Scottish Highlands. For nearly a century, people have scoured the lake with binoculars, sonar, and other equipment, hoping to glimpse this anachronistic plesiosaur. Although “confirmed sightings” number more than a thousand, no specimen has ever been captured and cataloged.
George R.R. Martin has more species named after his books than any other author.
Although the “Game of Thrones” creator has wasps, beetles, and even a pterosaur named after his characters, no author comes close to J.R.R. Tolkien. In fact, there’s an entire genus of New Zealand wasp named Shireplitis, with species S. bilboi, S. frodoi, and S. samwisei.
And that last part is important. Usually, for a species to receive a scientific name, scientists must have a “voucher specimen” in hand for future reference. However, in a non-peer-reviewed article in the December 1975 issue of Nature, U.S. researcher Robert Rines and British naturalist Sir Peter Scott put forward the name Nessiteras rhombopteryx based on only photographs and sonar data. In the article, the authors argued that “recent British legislation makes provision for protection to be given to endangered species; to be granted protection, however, an animal should first be given a proper scientific name.” In other words, the scientists had to give Nessie a name to save it (if “it” exists at all).
Although the legend of Nessie is beloved throughout Scotland (bringing in tourist dollars never hurts), not everyone was sold on giving the mythical elusive plesiosaur an air of scientific credibility. About a week after the name’s announcement in December 1975, a Scottish MP rebuffed the pseudo-scientific endeavor, saying there just might be a reason why “Nessiteras rhombopteryx” is an anagram for “Monster Hoax by Sir Peter S.”
Unconfirmed creatures such as yeti, sasquatches, and Nessie are called cryptids.
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The mythological history of the Loch Ness monster dates back to at least 564 CE.
The modern fascination with Nessie dates back to the 1930s, but the legend of a mythical creature lurking in Loch Ness is much older. Some point to first-century CE Pictish carvings of a creature resembling a swimming elephant as the first real evidence of Nessie, but the first written account of some kind of sighting didn’t occur until centuries later. In the seventh century CE, a hagiographer wrote about the exploits of St. Columba, a Catholic missionary credited with spreading Christianity throughout Scotland. According to this hagiography, in 564 CE St. Columba had a confrontation with some kind of “water beast,” and with the power of prayer, he convinced this unknown monster to leave his disciples alone (converting scores of Scots in the process). Filled with supernatural phenomena, the tale is as hard to believe as an ancient family of plesiosaurs lurking somewhere in Great Britain’s largest freshwater lake. But the story does establish a 1,500-year-old relationship between some unknown mythical “water beast” and the Scottish people — a relationship that remains to this day.
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Darren Orf lives in Portland, has a cat, and writes about all things science and climate. You can find his previous work at Popular Mechanics, Inverse, Gizmodo, and Paste, among others.
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Not all who speak for the trees are storybook characters … or even alive. That’s true in the case of Colonel William H. Jackson, a college professor and resident of Athens, Georgia, who sought to protect his favorite tree long after he was able to enjoy its shade. A portion of Jackson’s will made its way into newspapers around 1890, thanks to an unusual request — that his favorite childhood tree, and 8 feet of land surrounding it, be given to the tree itself.
Squirrels and deer eat acorns, and humans can, too. The tannins (naturally occurring bitter compounds) found in acorns can be toxic if consumed in large amounts. However, tannins are removed by soaking or boiling the nuts, rendering acorns safe for human consumption.
While the city of Athens has respected Jackson’s wishes and cared for the tree (with the help of gardening groups), it’s unclear whether the white oak has any legal roots to stand on. No modern person has ever seen the deed Jackson supposedly drew up to give the tree ownership of itself, and Georgia law doesn’t permit nonhuman entities to possess property. Yet no one has ever contested the tree’s ability to own itself, and Jackson’s oak has become a beloved local landmark. When it fell in 1942 during a windstorm, its acorns were collected and sprouted so that a descendant sapling could be replanted in the same spot.
Amazingly, Georgia isn’t the only place with a self-owning tree. Eufaula, Alabama — a town of 12,600 people some 200 miles from Athens — is home to another independent oak. In 1935, the area garden club advocated to protect a 65-foot-wide post oak (called the Walker Oak) in the middle of town, hoping to preserve a popular spot where children played. Mayor E.H. Graves recorded a “deed of sentiment” stating in part that the tree was “a creation and gift of the Almighty, standing in our midst — to itself — to have and to hold itself,” and an iron fence with a plaque was installed around the tree. Despite its safeguarding, a windstorm toppled the original 200-year-old hardwood nearly three decades later in 1961. But just like with its counterpart in Athens, townsfolk worked to replace the tree with another tree that still stands today.
Oak wood is often used to build wine and whiskey barrels because of its durability.
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Oak trees can drop up to 10,000 acorns in one year.
Oak trees are known to shower yards, cars, and even people with a deluge of acorns — some autumns more than others. The number of acorns a single tree drops depends on the year, since oaks follow a pattern of lean and heavy acorn-producing seasons. In “mast years,” aka years when trees produce a heavier-than-normal supply of the nuts, oaks can drop up to 10,000 acorns. Scientists aren’t entirely sure what causes mast years, but the cycle occurs every two to five years, regardless of weather or rainfall. One working theory is that the mast year cycle outsmarts predators such as squirrels and chipmunks, allowing oak trees to saturate their environment with more acorns than can be eaten and giving future saplings a shot at sprouting.
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Nicole Garner Meeker is a writer and editor based in St. Louis. Her history, nature, and food stories have also appeared at Mental Floss and Better Report.
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Coincidentally, they both came into existence at roughly the same time, although their reasons for adopting the controversial punctuation differ as dramatically as their settings. The first, a village in southwestern England called Westward Ho!, sought to capitalize on the popularity of the identically named 1855 book by Charles Kingsley, who wrote lovingly of nearby Bideford. Founded as a vacation resort in the 1860s, the hamlet sprung up around the Westward Ho! Hotel, and remains a notable tourist destination thanks to its scenic coastline and famed Pebble Ridge.
German correspondence includes a salutation line that ends with an exclamation mark.
Although the comma has become more commonplace, an old-fashioned greeting such as "Lieber Friedrich!" (Dear Friedrich!) can still be seen atop the similarly old-fashioned written letter in Germany.
The second place, a town in southern Quebec called Saint-Louis-du-Ha! Ha!, isn't exactly a bustling tourist destination, although early explorers may have been happy to refresh themselves at nearby Lake Temiscouata. According to the Commission de Toponymie du Québec, the archaic French term "le haha" indicates an unexpected obstacle or a dead-end, likely referring to the lake's sharp change of direction. That doesn't explain the distinct punctuation in the name — no one's quite sure how or why that started. But no matter; this unassuming community, established in 1860 as a Catholic mission, has garnered an extra boost of attention since being honored for its double exclamation marks by Guinness World Records in 2018.
Honorable mention goes to the southwestern Ohio city of Hamilton, which became known as Hamilton! following a city council vote in May 1986. While the announcement drew plenty of pre-internet buzz, the United States Board on Geographic Names and mapmaker Rand McNally & Company refused to play along. Hamilton! officials nevertheless pressed forward with duly punctuated city seals, letterhead, signs, and the like for some time, although the federally unrecognized notation had disappeared from existence by the time a city clerk undertook a short-lived attempt to revive it in 2020.
A punctuation mark that combines an exclamation point and a question mark is called an interrobang.
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A celebrated comic book writer became known for his exclamation mark-punctuated middle initial.
Were you to leaf through an old X-Men or Spider-Man comic, it wouldn’t take long to notice the proliferation of exclamation marks in the dialogue bubbles. That had as much to do with the exaggerated scenarios portrayed in the storylines as it did with the reality of printing on cheap pulp paper, which left a tiny period impossible to see at times. In the early 1970s, new DC Comics writer Elliot S. Maggin quickly adjusted to placing an exclamation mark where a period usually went, to the point where he unwittingly typed Elliot S! Maggin on a Superman script. Intrigued, editor Julie Schwartz subsequently issued an order to the rest of the company that any mention of Maggin’s name should thereby be “punctuated with an exclamation mark rather than a period from now on until eternity.” Maggin went on to earn industry acclaim for his work on Superman over the next decade-plus, and he continues to sign off with the S! well after leaving the hyperbole of comics behind to pursue other careers in writing, teaching, and politics.
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Given that the United States was born amid an anti-monarchical fervor, it’s fitting that the sole royal palace within its confines is located more than 4,700 miles from the nation’s capital. There, amid the high rises and palm trees of downtown Honolulu, stands Iolani Palace, the home of Hawaii’s 19th-century royal dynasty.
A patron of the arts, the Merrie Monarch teamed with royal bandmaster Henry Berger in 1876 to compose “Hawai'i Pono'i,” a tribute to the kingdom’s founder, Kamehameha I.
After King David Kalākaua rose to power in 1874, he elected to tear down the deteriorating coral block building that housed his predecessors and erect an ostentatious new home in a style that reflected the grand palaces he had visited while touring Europe some years prior. The “Merrie Monarch” went through three architects to get the residence he craved, winding up with a concrete-facing brick structure marked by six towers and open-air verandas stretching around all sides. The interior featured the lavish Throne Room, State Dining Room, and Blue Room to entertain dignitaries, along with a massive koa wood staircase to the private chambers of the second floor. Additional luxuries like indoor plumbing and a telephone pushed the final bill into the neighborhood of $350,000 before the palace opened in 1879, and that was beforeelectricity was installed in the late 1880s.
Unfortunately, this display of extravagance served Hawaii’s rulers for just over a decade. Kalākaua’s sister and successor, Lili’uokalani, was deposed in an 1893 coup orchestrated by American businessmen, and the palace became the offices of the provisional, territorial, and then state governments until 1969. Reopened to the public as a museum in 1978, Iolani Palace serves as a reminder of Hawaii’s days as a sovereign nation, as well as America’s complicated history with monarchies.
Iolani Palace was constructed in an architectural style known as American Florentine.
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Other “palaces” remain in use in the U.S. as museums and historical sites.
Although they never served as the residence of a monarch, a few other American structures retain the title of “palace” as the former home of a colonial authority. The best known is Governor’s Palace of Colonial Williamsburg, which housed seven British-appointed governors in Virginia and another two American-elected ones before the original building burned to the ground in a fire in 1781. Tryon Palace in New Bern, North Carolina, opened its doors to just two royal governors and, coincidentally, was also destroyed in a fire, before being rebuilt after World War II. Farther west, the 400-plus-year-old Palace of the Governors in Santa Fe, New Mexico, is the oldest European settler-built public building still in use in the United States. And finally there’s the Spanish Governor’s Palace in Texas, the only surviving building of an 18th-century presidio that guarded the settlement of San Antonio, and likely the only government building that also variously functioned as a pawn shop, tire shop, and saloon until it was restored by the city in 1930.
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Unless you’re a child of a certain age, you’ve likely long outgrown the silly, whimsical notion that Santa Claus lives in the North Pole. Obviously, he actually resides in Santa Claus Village, which is a real place you can visit. Located in Rovaniemi, Finland, the festive locale is part of the Arctic Circle and remains quite cold year-round. Speaking of year-round, St. Nick is even available for daily visits despite his busy schedule. He isn’t the only person honored there, either; Roosevelt Cottage, which was built decades before the rest of the village, was constructed there in 1950 in honor of former First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt’s visit to the Arctic Circle.
He received it in 1927 from William P. MacCracken, the U.S. assistant secretary of commerce for aeronautics.
But why has Rovaniemi been designated as Santa’s hometown, you may ask? Finnish folklore and tradition have long associated Santa with Finland’s Lapland region. Though Finns believe Santa’s real home lies in Korvatunturi, a fell in Lapland where Santa and his elves are said to listen to children’s wishes, they also believe its true location must be kept secret, so they chose nearby Rovaniemi as the “official” location for practical reasons. Santa Claus Village — which also has reindeer, more than 100 Siberian huskies, and a post office — opened in 1985 and has been delighting Christmas enthusiasts ever since.
Instead of Santa Claus, Iceland has 13 “Yule Lads.”
Before you start feeling too sad for all the Icelandic children who don’t have a Santa Claus despite living fairly close to him, know this: They have 13 “Yule Lads” instead. Mischievous yet merry, the Jólasveinar (as they’re known in Iceland) begin descending from the mountains to visit children’s homes on December 12. One Yule Lad makes the excursion each night, leaving gifts for good kids and rotting potatoes for those on the naughty list.
The 13 Yule Lads are, in order, Stekkjarstaur (Sheep-Cote Clod), Giljagaur (Gully Gawk), Stúfur (Stubby), Þvörusleikir (Spoon Licker), Pottaskefill (Pot Scraper), Askasleikir (Bowl Licker), Hurðaskellir (Door Slammer), Skyrgámur (Skyr Gobbler), Bjúgnakrækir (Sausage Swiper), Gluggagægir (Window Peeper), Gáttaþefur (Doorway Sniffer), Ketkrókur (Meathook), and Kertasníkir (Candle Stealer). As you may have guessed, their names provide hints as to the particular brand of trouble they cause. This odd family’s matriarch is the cruel troll Grýla, who lives in the mountains and has a penchant for turning misbehaving kiddos into stew.
Michael Nordine
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Michael Nordine is a writer and editor living in Denver. A native Angeleno, he has two cats and wishes he had more.
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Although poinsettias are a multimillion-dollar business in the U.S. today, these fiery plants have ancient roots — they were first cultivated by the Aztecs hundreds of years ago. Native to Mexico and Guatemala, the poinsettia, known to the Aztecs as cuetlaxóchitl (kwet-la-sho-she), was used for medicinal purposes: The milky white sap was thought to increase milk production, dyes derived from the leaves (or bracts) were used in textiles, and some war rituals involved the plant. Poinsettias were also believed to hold magical properties, with one Native legend saying just the smell of a poinsettia could cause infection of the reproductive organs.
Egypt is known for its tombs, but Mexico has the largest pyramid in the world. Located in the Mexican state of Puebla, the pyramid measures 4.45 million cubic meters by volume (twice the size of the Pyramid of Giza). Its name, Tlachihualtepetl, means “artificial mountain” in Nahuatl.
So how exactly did these ancient Aztec plants become so closely associated with the winter holidays? Well, the first reason is biology. Poinsettias are typically (but not always) red and green — colors that have been associated with Christmas for millennia. The plant also often reaches full bloom in December. The second part of the equation arrived in the 17th century, when Spanish Franciscan friars used the plant to decorate altars and nativities. When the Vatican eventually used the plant for decoration, other Catholic churches throughout the world weren’t far behind. In the early 20th century, farmers in California began mass-producing the plant in the U.S., and the venerable poinsettia has been a modern holiday must-have ever since.
The beautiful red plant that adorns mantles and dining tables during the holiday season is known by many names. The Aztecs called the plant cuetlaxóchitl, meaning “a flower that withers,” while the Maya used the phrase k’alul wits (“ember flower”). The Spanish friars of the 17th century called it flor de Nochebuena, or “Holy Night flower,” while other parts of Latin America used flor de Pascuas, or “Easter flower.” But in the U.S., Euphorbia pulcherrima goes by another name — poinsettia. The name is an homage to the U.S.’s first ambassador to Mexico, Joel Roberts Poinsett. An amateur botanist, Poinsett became enamored with the plant when he came across it while staying in Taxco, Mexico. Poinsett brought specimens back to his greenhouses in the U.S. around 1825 and sent clippings to a specialist in Philadelphia, who eventually christened the plant Euphorbia poinsettia. Unfortunately, Poinsett’s legacy outside horticultural circles is a troubling one, as he was an enslaver and expansionist, and interfered so much in Mexican politics that he was removed from his post by a request from the Mexican president in 1829. Because the name is both controversial and divorced from its Mesoamerican roots, some people now call this holiday favorite by its original name — cuetlaxóchitl.
Darren Orf
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Darren Orf lives in Portland, has a cat, and writes about all things science and climate. You can find his previous work at Popular Mechanics, Inverse, Gizmodo, and Paste, among others.
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The unicorn is a fanciful being of purity usually depicted in medieval art and literature (and modern fantasy and pop culture) as a dainty white horse or goatlike creature with a majestic horn. So when the famed Venetian explorer Marco Polo, who traveled throughout Asia from around 1271 to 1295, saw a “unicorn” up close during his travels in what is now Indonesia, he was disappointed — to say the least. “Their hair is like that of a buffalo … It is a hideous beast to look at, and in no way like what we think and say in our countries,” Polo wrote in his diary. “Indeed, I assure you that it is quite the opposite of what we say it is.”
Marco Polo was the first European to meet the Mongol Khan.
In 1245, on Pope Innocent IV’s order, Italian monk Giovanni da Pian del Carpini went to find the Mongol leader, in part to protest their recent invasion. After arriving in Mongolia, the monk met the supreme khan in August 1246. Polo didn’t meet Kublai Khan for at least another 25 years.
What Polo had actually spotted was likely the Sumatran rhinoceros (Dicerorhinus sumatrensis), the smallest rhino species in the world, and the only rhino with “hair like that of a buffalo.” That’s because the Sumatran rhino is the closest living relative of the now-extinct woolly rhinoceros, which lived during the Pliocene and Pleistocene epochs. Unicorns and rhinos had long had a garbled association in the European mind — the earliest account of a unicorn, from the Greek physician and historian Ctesias, seems based on a rhinoceros, and the word “unicorn” itself evolved out of an ancient game of telephone involving an animal described in the Bible by the Hebrew re'em and confused accounts of the rhinoceros.
Despite its name, the Sumatran rhino used to have a native range that stretched across central and southeast Asia. Today, scientists estimate that there are fewer than 80 Sumatran rhinos left in the world, and most — if not all — live on protected lands. Organizations such as the World Wildlife Fund are working with governments to protect the rhinos and fight the poaching and other crimes that contribute to their dwindling numbers. After all, the world has marveled at the creature for hundreds of years — and it deserves a chance at survival, even if some people have said it’s a “hideous beast to look at.”
A rhino horn is made of keratin, the same protein found in our hair and nails.
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Scientists are trying to bring the Northern White Rhino back from extinction.
InMarch 2018, the last male northern white rhinoceros died, leaving behind only two of his subspecies, both aging females who weren’t healthy enough to bear new calves. The subspecies of rhino is now effectively extinct — but scientists have other plans. Researchers are working around the world to bring the northern white rhino back from the brink. The plan is to create new embryos of the subspecies (perhaps using previously collected sperm and eggs, or manipulating pluripotent stem cells) and implant them in a female of its closest cousin, the southern white rhinoceros. If successful, the birth of new, healthy calves could resurrect the near-extinct species. In 2019,Italian scientists announced they’d successfully created two northern white rhino embryos, offering a ray of hope for a species facing annihilation.
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Darren Orf lives in Portland, has a cat, and writes about all things science and climate. You can find his previous work at Popular Mechanics, Inverse, Gizmodo, and Paste, among others.
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Original photo by Alexandre ROUSSEL/ Alamy Stock Photo
In the restaurant business, there is no greater honor than the Michelin star. Awarded on a ranking from one to three, Michelin stars are the standard of greatness when it comes to fine dining. Chefs pin their reputations on them, and having (or not having) them can make or break a business. So it might seem strange to discover that this culinary accolade is intimately entwined with… car tires. The story starts back in 1900, when brothers Andre and Edouard Michelin, founders of the Michelin tire company, created the Michelin Guide — a booklet full of useful information for French motorists. The free Michelin Guide included maps, lists of nearby gas stations and amenities, basic tire maintenance information, and various road-ready adventures. The hope was that these guides would inspire longer journeys at a time when the automotive age was just beginning, which in turn would mean selling more tires.
In the early days of automobiles, tires were considered the dressing of a car’s wheel, so the name derives from the word “attire.” Originally, tires were made from solid rubber attached to a metal rim, but the result was a bumpy ride. The first air-filled tires were patented in 1845.
But the Michelin Guide might be a forgotten relic if not for two events — one big, one small. The first event was World War I, which ravaged France and forced the Michelin brothers to stop publishing for a few years. The other was when Andre Michelin visited a tire shop around the same time and saw his free Michelin Guides doing the undignified work of propping up a bench. To help raise the guide’s prestige (and also help motorists explore Europe again following the war), the brothers reintroduced the handbooks in 1920, featuring more in-depth hotel and restaurant information — and instead of being free, they now cost seven francs. Within a few years, Michelin also recruited “mystery diners” to improve its restaurant reviews (they still work undercover), and in 1926, they began handing out single Michelin stars to the very best restaurants. Five years later, Michelin upped the amount of possible stars to three, and they have continued searching for the world’s best food in the nearly a century since. Today, the guides — and stars — cover more than 30 territories across three continents.
Tires haven’t changed much over the course of a century. Recommended PSI (pounds per square inch) and types of rubber have come and gone, but the basic equation has remained the same: air + rubber. Yet contrary to popular wisdom, Michelin and other tire brands are reinventing the wheel by making a tire that never goes flat. The idea, borrowed from designs used on smaller machines like riding lawn mowers, is an airless tire that uses flexible spokes rather than air to carry the load. Because these tires operate sans inflation, they’re impervious to punctures, uneven wear, and many other air-centric failures. Michelin estimates that these futuristic tires could save 20% (or about 200 million) tires from ending up in landfills each year. The biggest hurdle? They’re expensive — so it might be a while before everyone’s zipping around on these futuristic wheels.
Darren Orf
Writer
Darren Orf lives in Portland, has a cat, and writes about all things science and climate. You can find his previous work at Popular Mechanics, Inverse, Gizmodo, and Paste, among others.
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Earth is unique among planets in our solar system in a number of ways — a habitable atmosphere being chief among them. But when it comes to solstices, Earth is just one in a crowd. The winter and summer solstices represent the shortest and longest days of the year, respectively. Because of the Earth’s 23.5-degree axial tilt, certain parts of the planet lean toward or away from the sun, which creates the seasons. It’s during the solstices (December 21 to 22 and June 20 to 22) that the planet reaches its maximum tilt away (or toward) the sun, depending on the hemisphere you call home.
Humanity’s perception of the universe has a strong Earth bias. For example, it’s hard to fathom a day lasting longer than a year. But our planetary neighbor Venus rotates once every 243 days — the longest rotational period of any planet — while its solar orbit (a year) is only 225 days.
Solstices also take place on other planets, but not quite in the same way. Both Mercury and Venus have little axial tilt, so they don’t experience seasons as Earth does. Mars, however, has a very similar tilt to Earth at 25 degrees, and the planet’s ice cap will grow and recede according to the seasons. Although Jupiter has a minuscule axial tilt, Saturn’s axial tilt at 26.7 degrees means solstices there are truly something to behold — during the planet’s summer solstices, its rings become intensely illuminated as they reflect the sun’s light.
However, Uranus is the true oddity. With an axial tilt of a whopping 98 degrees, the planet’s poles point directly toward the sun during its solstices. When Voyager 2 took images of the planet in 1986, Uranus was experiencing its southern hemisphere’s summer solstice, with that hemisphere bathed in continuous light while its northern hemisphere was trapped in frozen darkness. So although all planets have solstices, no two are exactly alike — and Earth’s remain something special.
The word “solstice” is derived from Latin and means “sun standing still.”
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Earth likely has an axial tilt because it smashed into an ancient planet.
When planets were forming in the early solar system some 4.6 billion years ago, things were a bit chaotic. Constant collisions with asteroids and protoplanets kept the rocky worlds in the inner solar system in a constant molten state. One theory suggests that during this period, a protoplanet the size of Mars (named Theia) smashed into Earth. This cataclysmic event likely formed the moon and also knocked the Earth into its current axial tilt. Despite this happening so long ago, possible evidence of the collision may lie in Earth’s geology. In 2021, scientists documented two continent-sized layers of rock in the Earth’s mantle that looked unlike surrounding rock layers; the researchers suggested this rock could be the ancient remains of the protoplanet Theia. So next time you’re enjoying a beautiful summer day or a dazzling moonlit night, give thanks to the 4.6 billion-year-old protoplanet that met its molten fate and created the Earth we know and love today.
Darren Orf
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Darren Orf lives in Portland, has a cat, and writes about all things science and climate. You can find his previous work at Popular Mechanics, Inverse, Gizmodo, and Paste, among others.
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