Joe Pickett and Nick Prueher have made a career of their never-ending hunt for oddball footage.

Joe Pickett and Nick Prueher have been collecting "special interest" VHS tapes for the past 26 years. Specifically, they search for anything "not meant to be shown in public," as Prueher puts it, such as spin-off exercise videos, absurd job training courses, or an entire how-to series dedicated to scarf-tying. Since 2004, they’ve hosted Found Footage Festival events across North America, showcasing their massive and eccentric collection for live audiences.

In the video above, Atlas Obscura takes a closer look at the method to the VHS Guys’ madness.

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Maria Goeppert Mayer was relegated to unpaid and "volunteer" positions for most of her academic career.

In 1963, Maria Goeppert Mayer won the Nobel Prize for Physics. She was the second woman ever to win the prize. The first was Marie Curie, who won in 1903. The third woman to win is Donna Strickland, who was awarded the prize today for her work on high-intensity optical pulses (a.k.a. revolutionary laser physics). When she was told she was the third woman to win the physics Nobel, she was surprised. “I thought there might have been more,” she said.

Another surprising and equally disturbing wrinkle of this history of women in science: Maria Goeppert Mayer performed the work that won her physics' most coveted and prestigious prize while in unpaid and “volunteer” positions. It wasn’t until she was in her late 50s, just three years before she won the Nobel, that a university hired her full-time.

Mayer was born in 1906, and she grew up in Göttingen, a famous German university town full of professors known for their prowess in math. After starting her studies in mathematics, Goeppert Mayer switched to studying physics after becoming fascinated with quantum mechanics. After she moved with her husband, a chemist, to America, she spent years at Johns Hopkins, Columbia University, and University of Chicago, pursuing her work in physics outside of any official academic structure. Today, academic couples are often recruited and hired as a pair, but in the 1930s, universities shied away from giving jobs to the partners of professors—read: their wives, however talented. In Chicago, Goeppert Mayer was made a professor—but not given a salary for her work.

While in Chicago, she dug into her work on the origin of elements, which led to the work that would earn her the prize. She developed what’s known as the “nuclear shell model,” which explains how nuclear particles organize themselves in atoms. She published her groundbreaking work in 1948 in Physical Review. A separate team of scientists had independently come to the same conclusions: She shared the Nobel Prize with them.

By then, Goeppert Meyer had held a paid professorship for just three years. In 1960 the University of California, San Diego, appointed her to a full-time job. Yet, when she won the prize, newspapers identified her as a “San Diego Mother.”

Atlas Obscura readers share their most memorable experiences of traveling for the sake of eating.

Traveling is hungry business—and sometimes hunger can lead to traveling business. Food is one of the most visceral ways people experience new places, so much so that we often plan trips entirely around what (and where) we're most excited to eat. Recently we asked Atlas Obscura readers to share the story of their most memorable culinary journey. The results will make your mouth water.

We received heartfelt stories of how food inspired what turned out to be incredible trips, as well as of trips that ended up being indelibly enhanced by incredible food. Whether it was learning all about one of Italy's rarest pastas, or traveling all over New York just to find a specific brand of ice cream, each of our readers' submissions spoke to that key connection between food and discovery.

You'll find a selection of some our favorite reader responses below. Fair warning: They may inspire you to embark on a tasty adventure of your own!

A Month of White Asparagus

Germany

“I have visited Europe and Germany many times but never in the spring, and earlier this year I spent the month of May going all over Germany. I did not realize that for six weeks in May/June, it is white asparagus season and the whole of Germany embraces this wonderful vegetable. Every restaurant had white asparagus on their menu and I managed to have it every day in some form or another for three-and-a-half weeks. There were even small towns where their entire economy is based on this six-week season. It was very fun to see all the different ways asparagus could be served and I will be back again next year!”
— Michele Davis, Santa Cruz, California

An Unforgettable Meal

Ronda, Spain

“It was a honeymoon journey, a search for the spirit of the poet Lorca and dinner at Tragabuches... The meal began with an appetizer that came in a shot glass. Some sort of hot, rich, thick drinkable almost-yogurt-but-not that I wanted another glass of, but was too shy to ask for. Next came the goat. If I'd known goat could taste like that, I'd have eaten it before and after. [I’d never had] goat like that, gamey-but-not; seasoned aromatically, but I couldn't say with what. Dessert was chocolates from around the world. We drank a good rioja. Yes, we were newly in love, and yes, quite hungry, but nowhere before nor since, despite larger price tags, have I had a meal like that. That meal has lasted in the heart/mind for these many years, blending with lust and love and lives yet on the tongue.”
— Patrice Vecchione, Monterey, California

40-Year-Old Soup

Somewhere in Ohio

"Back in the 1940s it was legal and possible to hitchhike. One Sunday I was hitchhiking to Chicago and stopped in a small town somewhere in Ohio, looking for something to eat. I noticed a bar that offered something intriguing: a sign on the window proclaimed, ‘Try Our 40-Year-Old Bean Soup… .’ I had to try it, and it was delicious! The bartender/owner who served it told me the story. His father owned the bar, and served bean soup every day. When the war began he joined the army and left the bar to his teenage son. The boy continued working in the bar and continued making the soup, but now all he did was to put a huge pot on the back burner of the stove, filled it with pork bones, navy beans, tomatoes, and onions, and let it simmer slowly for hours. He never stopped the slow cooking on the stove, and when the levels went down in the soup (it was very popular), he kept on adding more pork, beans, tomatoes, onions, and water. I’m not at all sure that the health authorities today would permit that, and I don’t think a teenager should have run a bar, but that was then. The soup was really delicious, and I had two bowls. The sad part was that the father never came home from the war, but was killed in action, according to the son, in Normandy in 1944. If offered again, I would have some, but probably not two full bowls!”
— Jobaron, Israel

When Getting There Is Half the Fun

Knoydart, Scotland

"With no roads in or out, The Old Forge in the tiny village of Inverie on the Knoydart peninsula is the most remote pub on mainland Britain. Known as the last wilderness area in Great Britain, getting there involves an 18-mile hike over the peninsula's Munros or a seven-mile, scenic sea crossing. We opted to take one of the passenger ferries from the port of Malliag. After a rather damp and misty crossing, we landed at the pier in picturesque Inverie. Situated right on the seashore, The Old Forge looks out over stunning Loch Nevis to the Outer Isles. The journey from Otley to Mallaig itself involved a 360-mile round trip, through the most amazing scenery, including Glencoe. One of the most scenic mountain drives in the world. The journey alone was amazing and the seafood and setting was awesome! We tried to take a walk along the shore after lunch, but the rain came lashing down and we had to take shelter before we caught the return ferry back to Mallaig. Although the Scottish weather left much to be desired, The Old Forge did not. Its spectacular out-of-the-way location and fresh, simply cooked seafood make it well worth an excursion.”
— Claire Donkin, Otley, United Kingdom

Finding Threads of God

Nuoro, Italy

“In researching our (my husband and I’s) trip to Sardinia and later Rome and Tuscany, I came across an astounding fact. In Nuoro, there was a woman, Paola, who was one of the three remaining people on Earth that made the pasta known as ‘Su Filendeu’ or ‘God's Thread.’ It’s a tedious process and was originally made for the festival of St. Francis Day. The dough is folded and pulled many, many times until it is infinitesimally thin. It is laid over a ‘drum’ and the procedure is repeated twice more, criss-crossing each batch, allowing it to dry. Paola still makes it for the festival and for a few restaurants in town. We spent a lovely few hours with her in her home, being served coffee and biscuits. Her daughter was summoned from nearby and told us all about her mother and her career, as Paola speaks no English. We left the apartment smiling and went to a local restaurant, Antica Trattoria Il Rifugio, ‘The Refuge,’ to taste Paola's pasta. It is simply cooked in a sheep broth and then sprinkled with shredded Romano cheese. It was very basic and satisfying, just as it was intended to warm the bodies and souls of the pilgrims walking through the night on St. Francis Day. After dinner the chef allowed me to enter the kitchen and he specially cooked a portion, showing me how it was done. Aside from meeting a wonderful lady, I got to taste a food that may well die out with Paola, as she can find no one to teach the method to.”
— Andrea Swenson, Nyack, New York

An Entire Day of Pizza

Naples, Italy

“For some time I had wanted to experience authentic Neapolitan pizza in Naples, Italy. So this summer, while attending meetings in Rome, my colleague and I took the high-speed train to Naples and spent the entire day eating pizza in Naples. We walked 15 miles by the end of the day. I think we must've consumed 6-7 pies each, throughout the day, finishing off with the famous Pizzaria de Michelle. It was amazing! I have been making pizza at home for many years. I am so into pizza I even built my own brick oven in the backyard. I am always trying to perfect my pizzas. While the pizza in Naples was amazing, in the end, I realized that my pizzas have gotten pretty good. However, I will keep trying to reach pizza perfection.”
— Jeff Gang, Redlands, California

An Unexpectedly Transcendent Burger

Big Timber, Montana

“We took an RV vacation last summer, traveling from New Orleans to Montana. New Orleans cuisine is world renowned, and we are blessed to have eaten it all of our lives, so we weren't expecting to be wowed by food on our trip (mountainous scenery, yes). Then we were blown away by the humble hamburger in the small Montana town of Big Timber. I don't know, maybe the altitude makes cows happier, because I've never had an organic grass-fed hamburger with so much flavor! If I could afford to, I would fly to Timber Bar & Grill once a week for one of those burgers. The most delicious, flavorful hamburger!”
— Debra Horst, New Orleans, Louisiana

Life-Changing Oranges

Ashkelon Beach, Israel

“Many years ago I lived in the U.S., and a friend of mine invited me to travel with her to Israel. We stopped at a grocery store and found the elusive Jaffa orange, so we bought a few. The next day we wanted to travel south to the beach in Ashkalon. The weather was amazing, the water was perfect, and we stood there with the waves lapping our shins as we ate the oranges. We had juice running down our chins, hands, all the way down to our elbows. The flavor was impossible to describe, rich, like honey, delicate notes of neroli, and just a bit of lemongrass. There's really nothing like it. As the sun was setting, a lovely young man started playing the flute, and the whole day was simply magical. I can't imagine a five-star restaurant making me any happier. I think that may have been the moment that made me decide to move there for good. Israel is the BEST!”
— Cynthia Acosta, Bet Shemesh, Israel

Cao Lầu Forever

Vietnam

"I saw a documentary about food in Vietnam and one dish stood out: Cao Lầu, made only in Hoi An, Vietnam. As I am a single women traveling alone, I thought it safer if I joined a tour group for a tour. The tour began in Hanoi, ending in Ho Chi Minh City. One of our destinations was Hoi An, an ancient city on Vietnam’s central coast and the home of the dish, Cao lầu. As soon as we arrived, I went in search of a steaming bowl of Cao lầu. I discovered the main thing that makes Cao lầu different and delicious is the water used to prepare it is from a spring in Hoi An. The water is not found any place but Hoi An! After the tour ended, I returned to Hoi An for two weeks without my group. In those two weeks, I think I ate Cao lầu in every place that made it. But the very best I ate was prepared in the kitchen of the woman I rented my little apartment from. She invited me in the kitchen and let me help prepare the dish. The secret is, of course, the special water, and also the fresh organically grown local greens, but the love my landlady put in the dish made all the difference. To this day it is my very best foodie experience. Yes, it was worth the trip and I learned food made with local ingredients and love make the difference. But further, I encourage everyone to spend time with the people who prepare food and see the food from their perspective. It’s the best cultural experience.”
— Patricia Forcier, Jacksonville, Florida

Freshly Caught Scallops

Peru

“At almost the end of this culinary journey to Peru, we went to a small restaurant where we were to go out in a boat to harvest scallops that these ‘farmers’ were growing. The seas were determined to be unsafe for us in the small boat, but the farmers went out to their fields in the sea and harvested enough scallops for us to have a magnificent meal of them. They were simply served and we drank the coldest beer we had ever tasted. They were so very good. Even though we had to miss the actual harvest, we did watch it from land, and enjoyed a wonderful meal cooked by the man who had brought the scallops up from the sea.”
— Pam Sall, Lincolnwood, Illinois

It Never Hurts to Arrive Starving

Ozello, Florida

“This five-star fish restaurant is based on the Gulf of Mexico inlet of St. Martin's Marsh Aquatic Preserve. It is way out in the marshes where a narrow, winding, often-flooded road takes hungry folks, lusting for fresh Southern-prepared seafoods into the little fishing village of Ozello, Florida. Me and two friends decided to kayak there from Fort King Island beach in Crystal River. We got seriously exhausted fighting a stiff March breeze and a bouncy sea but finally made it to the docks behind the Peck’s Port Cove Restaurant, got out of our kayaks and staggered up to the patio. Very much worth the paddling experience, and because we had burned so many calories, we ate like starved pirates. Scallops and shrimp were to die for! Key Lime pie was the best on the West coast of the Sunshine State.”
— Jan, Dunnellon, Florida

The Royal Treatment

Barolo, Italy

“In the land of Barolo, the king of wines, and Barbaresco, the queen, the river Tanaro winds through the lush green valley. Vines grow on steep slopes, well above the fog lines. Raw meats, rich risottos, lamb, and truffles are paired with the juice of the Nebbiolo grapes. Small, historic villages with cobblestone streets, some designated the prettiest small villages in Italy, are havens for great food and wine, but lack the hordes of tourists at most wine destinations. I challenge you not to eat your weight in grissini, the lowly breadstick invented in the 1600s for the King of Piedmonte. We felt like we were the most important people in the room and had an exclusive insider's experience. Piedmonte is the home of the slow food movement and the dishes that were served were all traditional, fresh, and regional. The flavors were enhanced and paired with the local wines. One of the owners came to visit with us, introduced us to the chef, followed by a private tour of the winery cellars and library. It was a day to remember!”
— Penny Sadler, Dallas, Texas

Have Cheese — Will Travel

Galicia, Spain

“We wanted to travel to that part of Spain because of the famous cheeses produced there, and planned our trip from village to village (most of them have their own cheese recipe). It was worth the travel. Not only for the cheese. Galicia proved to be a beautiful province of Spain. It combines traditional farming areas (that's where they do the cheese things), religious sites (Santiago de Compostela), and Roman architecture. The latter was the most intriguing during the tour, as many of the old Roman buildings (churches, monasteries, etc.) were lying in ruins and could be visited (at least we did so). It was kind of a spooky feeling, searching the ruins with partly destroyed wall paintings, and dark chambers under the floor—particularly creepy when visiting them at dawn. We tried all the cheeses we met (with pure bread only). We mistakenly bought them also to bring them back home. But, there the taste was not that good anymore. Obviously, you need the special atmosphere of Galicia to find pleasure in tasting them.”
— Frank Brandstaetter, Dortmund, Germany

When a Craving Becomes a Quest

The Bronx, New York

“I was living in New York at the time, and I was craving Magnolia ice cream. Two trains and hours later, including getting lost twice and being new to the city, I was exhausted from the journey. I don't know why I wanted this particular brand, but I'm from the Bay Area and it's ubiquitous there. And for some random reason, I decided I would chase this ice cream craving. But by the time I was at the store, they did not have the flavor I wanted: vanilla. Ironic I know. Sigh.”
— Veronica Ng, Palo Alto, California

Orchids were once considered the world’s most difficult and exotic flowers. So why can you buy one for $12.99 at Trader Joe’s?

Wholesale orders go out today at Waldor Orchids, and the front room is filled with daubs of pink, purple, and orange, sweeps of peach, yellow splotches splattered with blood-red droplets, palettes of lavender fading into white. “This order here is a real basic order,” says Dave Off, picking a scrawled slip off the wall. Here in the greenhouses his grandfather built by the bay in Linwood, New Jersey, there are plants that have been alive for more than 100 years and plants that were born 18 months before in test tubes in Florida. That “basic order” means two large pots, with four phalaenopsis orchid plants apiece, two facing forward and two doubles—each with a pair of flower-bearing, stem-like spikes—turned towards the side.

When they’re in bloom, phalaenopsis spikes (or inflorescences, as they’re also known) curve gently under the weight of an elegant row of flowers. If plants were puppies, phalaenopsis orchids would be labrador retrievers—easy-going, pretty enough, and immensely popular. Off sells more white phals than he does any other flower. They’re so easy to reproduce, with each almost an exact copy of the next, that customers buy them online as if they are toothbrushes or T-shirts or any other factory-made item, and expect them to show up looking exactly like the picture.

For many years, orchids were considered a luxury—the exclusive domain of obsessed collectors who could coddle them in expensive hothouses. But today anyone can walk into Trader Joe’s or Home Depot and buy one for $12.99 or less. Orchids now populate the counters of cheap nail salons, the tables of tasteful living rooms, and tony hotel lobbies around the world. They might make a classy-ish and inexpensive housewarming present or hostess gift. All the way back in 1850, an orchid columnist for a gardening magazine imagined that one day the price of the flowers would be “within the reach of all.” That promise came true. It just took a little longer than the orchid lovers of the 19th century expected.

Humans have become adept at shaping plants and animals to our needs and desires, but orchids have been more resistant to our interventions than most of the wild things we covet. Collectors and gardeners devoted their whole lives to cultivating orchids, and still struggled to get seedlings to emerge, to make the plants comfortable in our homes, and to encourage them to reproduce. Corralling orchids—coaxing out the secrets that let us germinate, replicate, and commodify them—took a century of dedicated floriculture. Now there is a multinational apparatus of orchid science, sales, and shipping. An orchid might travel across the globe, from Taiwan to California to New Jersey, before it lands in a bathroom in Brooklyn.

Because of the innovations and efforts of plant scientists, orchids are now a commercial force. Over the past decade they pushed out poinsettias to become the most valuable potted plants in the United States, with sales worth $288 million in 2015, the last year for which U.S. Department of Agriculture data are available. But that success is limited to only a few types of orchids, out of tens of thousands of species, which make up one of the two largest families of plants on the planet. From roots to flowers, there are orchids smaller than an inch. The largest can weigh a ton. Vanilla is an orchid, the only one used in industrial food production. Some orchids grow on trees, others in bogs. Some have petals fringed like a leaf of frisée. Some have petals that look like the face of a monkey. But the ones we see available everywhere are all the same, derived from one tiny branch of the orchid family—phalaenopsis.

It took around 400 years of trying for anyone to understand what makes an orchid seed grow into a plant. The smallest orchid seeds weigh less than a microgram and are as tiny as a human sperm, and for many years scholars in Europe believed that orchid flowers grew from fermenting semen left behind in fields and forests by goats or birds. Only in the 16th century did a scientist first identify and describe their seeds.

Europe has hundreds of orchid species of its own, but the orchids that drove plant people to madness and obsession came from across the ocean. In the early 1800s, naturalists started shipping flouncy, bright cattleya orchids from tropical Brazil back to England. These flowers grow larger than a person’s palm, and they drip with color and ripple along their petal edges. But no one could figure out how to create more of them. A single pod can contain millions of seeds, and all of them might fail to grow, whether they’re sown on pieces of fern, strips of cork, patches of moss—at one time growers tried anything that seemed like it might work. Demand for these tropical orchids kept rising, but no one in Europe could reliably produce them. Orchid fever ran so hot that the wealthiest orchid lovers hired professional collectors to travel to faraway jungles and send plants back home.

Phalaenopsis, a genus of orchids now comprised of around 60 species and seemingly countless hybrids, were rare in Europe then. They often dried up and died on the journey from their natural range, which extended from southern Asia to northern Australia. Cattleyas, on the other hand, need a period of dormancy where they can go without water. They also have what are called pseudobulbs—turgid stores of water and nutrients that kept some of the plants alive long enough to eventually fetch high prices in Europe. Owning orchids meant being able to afford a plant that a man might have risked his life to collect, that might die at any time, and that couldn’t be made to reproduce.

Lewis Knudson wasn’t particularly taken by orchids, originally. He went to Cornell University in 1908 as a plant physiologist interested in how plants metabolize of sugar. According to Joseph Arditti, a biologist and historian at the University of California, Irvine, who has documented, in detail, the story of orchid cultivation, Knudson was a man of determined preferences. He favored dapper blue suits and clicking heels. He began every evening with a drink (scotch and soda, though during Prohibition, he and a neighbor made their own wine).

By the time orchids caught Knudson’s attention, botanists had discovered a few of their secrets. They had observed that sometimes orchid seeds develop into seedlings if they are planted next to adult orchids. And since the early 20th century they had known that orchids had some crucial relationship with fungi, after a French scientist noticed that bird’s-nest orchids, with dull, diminutive flowers, each had its own fungal colony around its roots.

Knudson’s interest in orchids was sparked when he realized something that no one else had: Fungi actually feed baby orchids, by soaking up and digesting nutrients from the surrounding soil, and then regurgitating them for the orchids, like a mother bird feeding its brood.

In December 1918, Knudson started experimenting with solutions of sugars and minerals that he used to formula-feed cattleya seeds. By July 1919, he had grown seedlings without the intervention of fungus, using only a sugary solution. Within two years, he had refined a formula—a combination of sucrose, calcium, nitrogen, and other key chemicals—that could germinate orchid seeds consistently.

Rivals, though, were skeptical. Yes, he had grown seedlings, but would they become normal plants and bloom? Orchids grow slowly and can take years to produce their first flowers. In the fall of 1920, Knudson started a crop of seeds. Three years later, he picked the most promising young plant and transplanted it into a large, 12-liter flask. Five years after that, in November 1928, the plant produced two standard flowers.

For decades, even after he retired, Knudson carried around a test tube filled with his medium, and showed anyone he could the orchid seedling growing inside, Arditti recounts. His discovery let commercial growers raise more orchids than ever before. But they were still rare and precious plants. Sometimes, his students say, Knudson produced a small vial, poured out its contents into his hand, and blew a fine powder into the air. “There’s $10,000 worth of orchid seed,” he’d tell his class, exaggerating just a little.

There is another way to cultivate orchids besides starting from a seed. In the very back of Waldor Orchids, past the crowd of identical white phals forming lofted clouds, there’s a greenhouse Off calls the “stockhouse.”

“We let people go in there and look around but not touch,” he says. “The stuff in there is just not for sale.” These are high-quality plants, often used as breeding stock, and most people don’t understand their value. But if a serious collector Off trusts, someone who knows orchids, sees a plant he or she has to possess, then eventually Waldor might relent and sell that dedicated person a cutting, called a “division.” Depending on the plant, a single division might cost hundreds of dollars.

Grown from an offshoot like this, each new plant is a clone of the parent. For breeders who’ve spent years developing unique and (to their minds) perfect flowers, that’s an advantage. In seeds, orchids’ genetics mix every which way, so two orchids from the same parent plants might have flowers of different sizes or beauty. Knudson’s germination breakthrough helped increase the supply of orchids, but didn’t necessarily make getting the plants that orchid lovers want much easier. Divisions helped, but the most desirable orchids were still elusive, because each plant can only be divided into a handful of new ones. Multiplying orchids in this way, wrote Donald Wimber, a cell biologist and another orchid innovator, in 1963, could be “at times exasperatingly slow and occasionally an almost futile effort.”

Wimber had a different idea about how to reproduce orchids. Instead of working with seeds, he began with small shoots, and devised a way to turn them into lumpy, vegetal balls that look like the eggs of some amphibious alien species and hold in their cells the promise of countless orchid clones.

When he started tinkering with orchids, in the 1950s, Wimber was a young scientist with short hair and heavy-framed glasses, studying cytogenetics, the relationship between chromosomes and cell behavior. As he finished his graduate work in Claremont, California, he was doing research on the side for Dos Pueblos Orchid Company, part of a vast ranch north of Santa Barbara, stretching three miles along the coast. Before the company bred a new hybrid, he inspected the cells of the parents and counted sets of chromosomes to try to predict the characteristics of their offspring. He oversaw a phalanx of flasks with seeds sown inside, using the techniques Knudson had pioneered.

In the summer of 1955, Wimber began experimenting. He selected shoots of new growth, less than two inches long, from a mature Cymbidium lowianum, an orchid with yellow-green petals and a white labellum (the part of the orchid that attracts pollinators) edged with crimson, as if it had been dipped into red ink. He stripped the shoots of their embryonic leaves and placed the shoots on a growth medium. Over time, instead of developing as a normal plant, they bubbled with lumps of undifferentiated orchid tissue. Cut into pieces, those lumps could—ever so slowly—be grown into tiny plants. By December, they were just an eighth of an inch tall. By 1957, they had reached just over four inches.

“I knew I had something,” Wimber told Arditti years later. Cloning was less clunky and limited than growing divisions, but it was still so slow, too slow for the commercial growers who employed him. Like Knudson, he also needed to prove that his lab-grown plants would flower, and with the same ideal flowers as the original.

Wimber left California for the Brookhaven National Laboratory in New York, which specialized in atomic research and had a “gamma garden,” in which plants are grown around a radioactive source in order to induce mutations, with the goal of discovering desirable traits. There was plenty of work there for a cytogeneticist, but Wimber kept tinkering with masses of orchid cells, too. By 1963, he had refined his technique.

Left untouched, the small balls that Wimber grew from orchid shoots would start developing into plants. But if he shook them around in the flasks in which they grew, they would develop into ever larger pluripotent balls. (Plants use gravity to determine where to send roots and stems, so agitating the balls confused them.) After about two months, Wimber chopped each ball into 20 or more pieces, dropped them in fresh solution, and shook them again. Repeating this process, he had created a factory of orchid clones—several hundred copies of a single original shoot. The small plants still had to grow up, but the technique, Wimber wrote, could mean that “desirable clones could be multiplied ad infinitum within a short time.” It transformed commercial orchid production. Around that same time, a French botanist used a similar technique to copy a famous hybrid, with petals flushed with pink, a labellum spotted with rich maroon, and a tiny, bright yellow tongue, thereby ridding it of a disease, a type of mosaic virus, that ruined its flowers. “In a few years,” The New York Times reported in 1964, “there may be no such thing as a rare orchid.”

The crimp-edged petals of a cattleya give it dimension. They smell nice. And a single cattleya orchid makes an excellent corsage. When Dave Off’s grandfather George started growing orchids, cattleyas were for special occasions. On Easter or Mother’s Day, demand spiked. George had started growing flowers in the 1920s and by the mid-1950s was selling tens of thousands of cattleya flowers a week during peak times.

Cultivating orchids requires both significant investment and vigilance. Cattleyas need six to eight hours of sun, year-round, so in temperate climates they’re often grown in greenhouses. At Waldor the boiler is hooked up so that Dave Off or his uncle can check the temperature at any hour. “If there’s a problem, you’re here,” says Off. “If it’s really cold outside and we lose our boilers, we have about two to three hours before the place will freeze.” Heat is one of their highest costs. Off thinks about his business in terms of cost per square foot of greenhouse. In general, plants need to earn back the cost of keeping them alive. In a couple of the Waldor greenhouses, there are rows and rows of tiny, two-inch plants, the products of a hybridization experiment. Soon Waldor will start selling those off, because it’s too expensive to keep them all as they grow larger and take up more room. From seed, cattleyas can take six to eight years to flower for the first time.

Most people don’t want to invest their time or shelf space in plants that look nice only a few weeks each year. Without flowers, the broad, flapping leaves and tendril-like roots of orchids can be considered ugly. Traditional growers such as Off’s grandfather made their money selling orchid blooms as cut flowers. But in the 1970s, not long after orchid cloning sped up, flower fashion changed. Wider windows flooded indoor rooms with sunlight, and potted plants colonized many homes. Plants flown in from tropical forests became decorative ornaments, and soon those potted plants became every bit as disposable and replaceable as cut flowers. Stores such as K-Mart and Home Depot, which opened its first store in 1978, started selling plants. People liked the idea of caring for living things, but if a plant dried up or simply didn’t fit the look of a room, it was cheap enough to toss.

“You could purchase plants like you could purchase a lamp,” says Robert Griesbach, a deputy assistant administrator at the U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA). “You could buy a plant when you got your groceries, and the next week throw it away.”

In the early 1980s, Griesbach was hired as a research geneticist in a USDA lab that wanted to create an ideal potted houseplant for the general consumer. The perfect plant would have attractive, variegated leaves, an alluring smell, the ability to rebloom on a windowsill with east or west exposure, and amazing, colorful, long-lasting flowers. Griesbach and his colleagues looked at begonias. They looked at African violets. Lilies. Impatiens. None of them were right. But moth orchids—phalaenopsis—had promise.

Phalaenopsis did not yet have much cachet. Their broad faces are tricky to fit into bouquets. They don’t make dramatic corsages. They don’t smell like much (which was a drawback for the USDA effort). They have good qualities, though. They flower big and long. They don’t require much water or light. Unlike cattleyas, they bloom within 18 months of being grown from seed. And they grow in conditions that people also enjoy—not too hot, not too cold. They are happy in the human home.

Griesbach started work on a commercial variety by breeding wild species to create a plant of the right size, with the right type of leaves, with larger, more plentiful flowers. When his lab released a couple of these creations, commercial growers picked them up, and started breeding those and others to create new varieties of their own. Phals were still expensive, at $60 or $70 a plant, but florists started to stock them.

American scientists were not the only horticulturists who saw promise in phals. In the 1970s Dutch growers started mass-producing phalaenopsis plants using the cloning technique Wimber had described. In the Netherlands, phals were sold as cut flowers, but the growers raised plants for the American market, too. They started up the little plants and then shipped them across the Atlantic. All American companies had to do was bring them to maturity. By the late 1980s, the price of phals started to drop.

Then Taiwan got involved, with a different cloning technique that created even more plants in a shorter period of time, another boon to the potted orchid market. “If you’re interested in cut flowers, you don’t need half a million plants,” says Griesbach. “If you’re selling potted plants, you need eight or nine million.” Taiwanese growers also started a massive breeding program, growing thousands of seedlings and picking the best ones to cater to the different tastes of the Japanese market, the Chinese market, the American market. “It is unbelievably cheap,” says Griesbach. “They outcompete everyone.” By the 1990s, it finally became possible to buy orchids—really, mostly phals—in many colors and patterns, for less than ever before.

At one time, Waldor imported young, unbloomed phals from overseas and raised them in the greenhouses. Now the plants are so cheap, even fully grown, that it’s not worth dedicating the time and greenhouse space to cultivating them. Phals fill Waldor’s back greenhouse, but they leave almost as soon as they arrive. “If you come back here in a month or two, it’ll be completely different plants,” say Off. Once, the arrival of a new variety, with petals of a different color or pattern, would have been an occasion, but now it’s common for Waldor to get in new, unique, and beautiful orchid variants every month.

Once exotic, rare, and delicate, these orchids have been transformed into a commodity—inexpensive, widely available, and completely familiar. Of all the many orchids in the world, though, we’ve only manage to tame and package a few.

Off grew into his profession. He is 39 years old, and he grew up tending the orchids at Waldor, but he was probably 25 before he started to like it. Now he’s an obsessed plant collector, the sort who gets excited about a tiny, fuzzy flower that most people couldn’t care less about, just because he’s never seen it before. His personal orchid collection now has thousands of plants, most of which he keeps at the Waldor greenhouses, but only one phalaenopsis. “I have one that’s a fragrant, miniature thing,” he says. “I think that one plant is unique.”

Today, there are two types of orchid people—the same serious collectors who will spend real money on the plants they simply must possess, and orchid lovers who are satisfied by the now-simple pleasures of one phal after another. But buying a cheap orchid at a grocery store “is almost like getting a print versus an original painting,” says Off. “For me, I’d always want an original versus a copy.”

Even though phals are a big part of their business, Waldor still specializes in cattleyas, out of love for the flamboyant plants. Off knows that the path from dabbler to collector can be very short, anyway. Phals are often just a gateway orchid. People come into the shop all the time and say that they’re tired of them. What else can they grow?

“We always joke that every orchid person, if they grow orchids long enough, will grow cattleyas eventually,” says Off. “Because they’re the best orchid.”

She brought the rare, age-old art to Epcot and a Yayoi Kusama exhibition.

Amezaiku is the traditional Japanese practice of molding hot candy into artistic shapes before it hardens. This feat, traditionally accomplished by experienced craftsmen in front of a crowd, was once thought to be a fading art. But it's been given a second life by social media and new brick-and-mortar stores.

Until recently, American audiences could watch an amezaiku artisan at work in an unlikely place: the Japan Pavilion inside Disney World's Epcot. Known to the public as "Candy Miyuki" or, more recently, as "Candy5," the artist deftly twisted figurines out of candy there for 17 years. Miyuki left Disney in 2013, and is now a freelance candy artist. Just last week, she made sweet treats for the preview of a Yayoi Kusama exhibition at the Tampa Museum of Art, riffing on both that artist's famed silhouette as well as her "dot" motif.

Miyuki's primary medium is glutinous starch syrup, which is heated to 200°F and then pulled like taffy. Each piece starts with a golf ball-sized lump of hot candy impaled on a stick. With food coloring and a few judicious snips from custom-made Japanese candy scissors, she can produce anything from a purple pig to a glittering dragon in mere minutes.

The road to sugar stardom was bumpy. According to Miyuki, she is the first female amezaiku artist to receive formal training in the practice. 25 years ago, while living in Japan, she went through a divorce. Needing a job, she prayed every night for guidance from her long-passed father, a former newspaper writer. Then, picking up a newspaper one day, she came across an interview with an amezaiku artist. "This is my new job," she remembers thinking. To this day, she considers it a "nice message" from her father.

So Miyuki set about finding a candy-making teacher in Tokyo, which was a challenge during the pre-internet era. Miyuki ended up calling her local police station to ask if they knew about any candy artists. One policeman protested that amezaiku was "old culture," and that it would be impossible to find a practitioner. But another officer pointed her towards the director of an Edo-era (1603-1868) cultural festival, who gave her the number of Takeo Kimura, an accomplished amezaiku artist.

Miyuki's first encounter with her teacher-to-be was less than ideal. During their first conversation, he told her he didn't want to teach a woman. Miyuki says that until recently, that was a typical attitude. Craftsmen usually wanted to pass their arts down to male heirs, while women were encouraged to be housewives. Regardless, she became his student.

He taught her what she considers the essential forms of amezaiku, the 12 animals of the Chinese zodiac. Miyuki learned the "eastern" style of amezaiku, which relies on hands and scissors to make the final creation. Another "western" variation, she notes, uses a straw to inflate sugar sculptures with air, giving them a round form. But the practice was deemed unsanitary in Japan a generation ago, and now it's relatively rare (Miyuki also notes that inflating the sugar sculptures makes them more fragile). But Miyuki was Kimura's last student: The elderly artist died a year after they met.

Miyuki practiced making her sugar sculptures, and soon Disney came calling. American administrators wanted an amezaiku artist at Epcot, and put in a call to Tokyo Disneyland. Miyuki sent in an audition tape, and in 1996, she moved to Florida with her young daughter for the job.

At her booth in the Japan Pavilion, Miyuki made her signature sugar sculptures in front of awed guests, with one lucky spectator able to take the final piece home. The most requested shapes, Miyuki says, were dragons and unicorns. While she's able to whip those up in two minutes, Miyuki's favorite thing to make are elaborate candy faces, which can take up to half an hour each.

The traditional art form does have its challenges. While Florida is known for its balmy weather, the cooler winters meant that her candy would harden faster: In summer, she could take three minutes per work, while winter shortened the candy's malleability to a minute. Plus, there were cultural differences. Sometimes guests, especially children, noted that her final candy sculptures weren't tremendously sweet. According to Miyuki, Japanese candy contains less actual sugar than American sweets. "There's too much sugar in America," Miyuki says.

Miyuki's career at Disney wasn't uninterrupted. Disney briefly laid her off when the U.S. economy dipped in the early 2000s. But it wasn't long before she was asked to come back, something she attributes to the demands of guests who loved watching her work. When she left in 2013 for New York, it was her own decision. Now, she makes candy for cultural events and parties. "Candy art is very rare Japanese culture," she says, and she hopes it will become even more popular. While there's no more Candy Miyuki at Epcot, her legacy continues in a different way: Miyuki's daughter now works for Disney World as a dancer.

If they can make it there, they'll make it anywhere.

Kemp's ridley sea turtles are the smallest sea turtles in the world. They're also the rarest. They like to hang out in the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico, and most females nest on a particular beach in Rancho Nuevo. Occasionally, one will travel up the Atlantic Coast and try her luck in North or South Carolina.

For some reason, this year, one Kemp's ridley tried something a little different. She decided to lay her eggs in Queens, New York. And thanks to some helpful humans, the gamble paid off: Last week, 96 tiny new New Yorkers hatched, scrambled across the sand, and crawled back into the water.

It all started in July, when beachgoers on the western part of the Rockaway Peninsula noticed a Kemp's ridley crawl out of the water and dig herself into the dunes. Someone called the Riverhead Foundation for Marine Research and Preservation hotline—631-369-9829, in case you ever need it—and let them know about the tiny Testudines tourist.

She wasn't the first Kemp's ridley to visit the state. "These guys tend to strand," says Maxine Montello, the Foundation's rescue program director. "We see them during the winter months because of cold stunning," a hypothermic state that prevents them from swimming. But the Queens turtle was the first to stake her legacy there on purpose. "This is the first time an adult was seen... actually depositing eggs in New York," Montello says.

The day after her visit, with support from the Foundation and the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, National Park Service employees moved to protect the nest. They built a fence, or exclosure, to keep out predators and curious people. "We made it look like a piping plover exclosure so that we didn't draw attention to it," says Patti Rafferty, the chief of resource stewardship for Gateway National Recreation Area, where the beach is located. Rangers came by to check on it every day.

Things were going fine until the morning of September 10, when the nest started flooding. "We had particularly high tides at that time, and on top of it we had a storm system come through," says Rafferty. NPS workers feared the worst: that the eggs had drowned, or that erosion had exposed them to scavengers. They asked permission from the Fish and Wildlife Service to dig up the nest and incubate any remaining eggs.

"It was a last ditch effort," says Rafferty. "When we went into it we weren't really sure that there were any eggs that would be viable." But of the 116 eggs they found, 110 were still living. They put them in a few different incubation boxes and stored them in a park facility nearby.

They still weren't sure they would ever hatch. Turtle incubation periods usually top out at about 60 days, and it had already been two months when they excavated the nest. But last week, the eggshells started cracking. "They basically hatched one box at a time," says Rafferty.

Soon after they're born, baby turtles go into something called a "frenzy," a hyperactive period that allows them to scoot across the sand, swim through waves and currents, and reach the open water. "It's important to get them out and release them when they're in that high-energy state," says Rafferty.

"As soon as we had turtles that were in frenzy, we brought them out, and we released them back at the same beach where the nest was." One by one, they squirmed their way to the water and were gone. "It was one of the most proud and exciting moments of my career," Rafferty adds. And it came with an extra perk: "They're awfully cute."

Ninety-six turtles hatched in all. They are too small to tag, says Montello, so "there's nothing that will differentiate them from any other hatchling out there." But perhaps they know, deep inside, that they're New York turtles. No one had better mess with them.

The text features exhaustive directions for cooking, eating, and being.

During the Medieval Islamic era, civil and religious leaders in Baghdad—known as caliphs—hosted legendary, opulent banquets within their courts. Communal dishes lined tables and drinks flowed freely. The caliphs peppered in entertainment throughout the meal as well, often asking revelers to sing praises about the food before them. One such caliph, al-Mustakfī, implored people to gather one day to recite poetry and dish about food. That day, people waxed about the likes of kamakh, an ancient countertop cheese. Later, at al-Mustakfī's behest, they made the food that they’d praised in song and verse.

Food and drink was a common cause for celebration in the Medieval Islamic world—a far cry from how, say, Medieval Europe conceived of food. “They liked to talk about food, they enjoyed it, and they had no prohibitions whatsoever,” says Nawal Nasrallah, an Iraqi scholar, author, and translator. “It’s unlike, for example, in Europe during Medieval times, where talking about food was considered a kind of gluttony. In Islam it was permissible.”

In the 10th century, intellectuals and creatives of the Muslim world flocked to Iraq. Baghdad, the capital of the Abbasid dynasty, grew substantially during this "golden era." Caravans often passed through the city, which contributed to it becoming a place of both cultural and culinary exchange. “At this time it attracted all the world’s riches, material, spiritual, and intellectual alike," writes Lilia Zaouali in the preface to her book Medieval Cuisine of the Islam World. "Cultures and languages from the world over came together here, coexisting and, of necessity, blending with one another." Scholars, poets, philosophers, historians, and caliphs thrived in Baghdad.

The vast expansion carved out spaces for “prosperous leisurely classes that demanded the best wealth could offer, which naturally included gourmet cuisine,” as Nasrallah writes in her translation of the 10th-century Baghdadi cookbook, Annals of the Caliphs’ Kitchens. Nothing illustrated one’s taste and class like knowing how to cook, and from there, writing cookbooks and manuals became popular. That’s part of why the Middle East came to have the most in-depth trove of medieval food literature in the world. As Charles Perry notes in his foreword to Medieval Cuisine of the Islam World, “there are more cookbooks in Arabic from before 1400 than in the rest of the world’s languages put together.”

Annals of the Caliphs’ Kitchens, written around the 10th century by Ibn Sayyar al-Warrāq, is the earliest-known of these cookbooks. It’s an exhaustive tome that immortalizes Baghdad as a thriving cultural and culinary epicenter, with 615 recipes culled from more than 20 cookbooks and dozens of poems praising culinary wonders. It took centuries to come out of obscurity, however.

Nasrallah immigrated to the United States in the 1990s from Iraq. “People asked me about my food; I think this is a way of trying to know people better,” Nasrallah says. “So I tried to refer to cookbooks.” Finding nothing, she then set out to write her own Iraqi cookbook. While researching what would become that book, Delights from the Garden of Eden, she uncovered something unusual at IU’s library: two cookbooks from medieval-era Baghdad, written in the 10th and 13th centuries, respectively. While the earlier book had been edited in the 1980s, it hadn’t been translated. Stunned by this discovery, Nasrallah decided to take it on. She translated the book into English, which was published in 2007.

Alternately known as Winning a Lover’s Heart and Sparing Him the Need for a Doctor, the book meticulously documents every detail important to making delectable meals for friends and distinguished guests. It’s remarkable in how it also doubles as a how-to guide for everything from remedies for burnt foods to the humoral properties of cold foods. There’s a chapter devoted to “manners observed when commoners share meals with their superiors and kings,” musings on proper etiquette, and a list of “soups for cold-related maladies.”

This focus initially struck Nasrallah. “What surprised me is that I opened the book and about the first 20 chapters or so, there were no recipes,” she says. “The guy was just talking about the properties of food, the nature of food, the strength of meat.” As Perry notes, caliphs often employed Christian physicians who knew the Greek school of medicine, which is why the idea of serving vegetable dishes to the sick is a central part of the book. (Yet vegetable dishes in this book are known as muzawwar, meaning “counterfeit.")

These chapters point to the all-encompassing way that people thought about food, and explains why the manuscript stayed shelved for so many years, Nasrallah notes. “I don’t think they looked past the first five or six chapters before deciding what this book was,” she says. “So they categorized it as a book of medicine, when, in fact, it’s a proper cookbook.”

Annals of the Caliphs’ Kitchens also doubles as a love letter to food and drink, featuring poems from then-famous wordsmiths alongside recipes. For instance, a recipe for white zirbaja (a delicate bird stew) is accompanied by an al-Hafiz-penned poem about it:

Zirbaja is a unique dish, which of all the living creatures only the smartest relish.

Languishing in yellow, like flowers and sprouting grass in spring,

Having had its fill of saffron crushed. Free of flaws and blemish.

It comes in a bowl of silver shining white, as if from the light of the moon stealing …

Not much is known about the scribe who put this book together, though Nasrallah notes in her introduction that the author’s nickname, “al-Warrāq,” likely points to the fact that he was in Baghdad’s book industry. (At the time, writers and scribes flocked to markets known as “sūq al-warrāqīn,” where they could conduct research on pre-existing texts and earn commissions by compiling books). In the text, he writes that he was commissioned, almost certainly by a wealthy someone, to put together a cookbook that documented the foods that princes, caliphs, elites, and others dined on. Perry speculates that his patron may have been Saif al-Daula, a Hamdanid prince looking to implement culinary arts to bolster both his cultural cache and his Aleppo court. The fact that al-Warrāq included 10 poems by Kushajim, a member of al-Daula’s circle, and noted that he learned them first-hand, lends further credibility to this theory.

Regardless, it’s clear that whoever commissioned al-Warrāq to write the book wasn’t just interested in step-by-step instructions on how to make, say, raisin wine. They were invested in understanding the minutiae of how a meal is constructed, which flavors go well together, and the effects that certain foods might have on someone’s mood and stomach. The cookbook especially stressed anthologizing Abbasid cuisine, with “an eye on demystifying it to facilitate its duplication in relatively simpler kitchens,” as Nasrallah writes.

It’s clear that people were concerned with cultural preservation. “These cookbooks reflect the salient aspects of the societies of their time, inasmuch as they respect the conventions of their predecessors and perpetuate the models of the Abbasid tradition that their authors knew from their own reading,” writes Zaouali. “There was no break with the old traditions, then, but rather an accumulation of knowledge and an enrichment of the culinary art that went hand in hand with the broader aim of cultural enrichment under Muslim rule.”

The recipes from Annals of the Caliphs’ Kitchen hold up, too. Nasrallah guest lectured about the book and demonstrated some of the recipes at Boston University’s History of Food gastronomy course. There, she used recipes from the book to make the likes of bazmaward, a pinwheel sandwich crafted from eggs, nuts, vegetables, and cheese, and shredded chicken dipped in a pomegranate-walnut sauce, known sibagh. The cold dishes, especially ones containing eggplant, are a standout, she says.

While some of the procedures may be different, they’re not that distant from Iraqi cuisine today. “I was surprised by the similarities between what we cook now and what they cooked,” Nasrallah says. “We’ve been cooking all these dishes, and there were people a thousand years ago ... who were cooking the same thing.”

The Ethiopian institution pioneered a new model.

Housed in the nondescript office buildings of the Ethiopian Biodiversity Institute are a series of cryogenic vaults that, together, contain the largest and most important collection of plant seeds in sub-Saharan Africa. Located in the capital city of Addis Ababa, the facility stores seeds for more than 62,000 varieties of native plants related to horticultural production alone.

When it was founded in the early-1980s, the EBI became the world’s first living seed bank. This is in contrast to the Svalbard Global Seed Vault, which is housed underneath thick ice not far from the North Pole, and is essentially a bunker meant to protect seedstocks against global calamity. By partnering with local farmers, the EBI instead “stores” a minimum of 40,000 additional varieties by keeping them alive and growing in fields.

“From a global perspective, the single focus of gene banks seems to be on collecting and preserving whatever samples they can find, and they call that conservation,” agronomist Melaku Worede told an interviewer in 2009. The 82-year-old helped found the EBI and received a Right Livelihood Award (commonly known as the Alternative Nobel) for his work as its first director. “We, on the other hand, believe in conservation through use, in keeping diversity alive as you use it.”

Worede says the approach is particularly important for a developing nation like Ethiopia, which features a cornucopia of native crop diversity. As one of the world’s eight primordial hotbeds of agriculture, the country is recognized by horticulturalists as a Vavilovian Center of Diversity. The distinction is awarded to regions that first developed and subsequently disseminated some of the world’s most important domesticated crops.

“For millennia, the insulation and natural interconnectivity of indigenous farming communities in Ethiopia both protected and led to the creation of tremendous crop diversity,” says agronomist Henk Hobbelink, 62. Co-founder of the international nonprofit GRAIN, he has spent the past 30 years working with small farmers to preserve global crop diversity. In the late 1980s and early 90s, he was instrumental in early iterations of the EBI. “Farmers relied on diversity to provide a varied diet and insure them against catastrophe,” he continues. “By planting many varieties of the same crop [sometimes dozens in a single plot] and saving seeds from the season’s best performers, they encouraged genetic adaptation relentlessly.”

As Ethiopian farmers improved their crops and cultivated new varieties, they stored their seeds in large clay jugs and cataloged them according to use. Over time, the villager-farmers created community seedstocks adapted to localized conditions including rainfall, average temperature, soil makeup, performance, and palatability. Exchange through trade and migration meant varieties were cultivated in new areas, establishing additional diversity. This process continued well into the 20th century and, in some places, goes on to this day.

“A great example of this process is teff,” says Hobbelink.

Similar to quinoa or millet, Ethiopians raise the hardy grass for its edible seeds, which they use to make injera, a beloved form of flatbread. Though the country’s growing conditions are extremely diverse—ranging from deserts to cool mountain highlands to tropical forests—if there’s a farm, you can bet a variety of teff has been adapted to grow there.

“Teff was one of the earliest domesticated crops, and there are literally hundreds of varieties cultivated in Ethiopia,” says Hobbelink. “Furthermore, the farmers can differentiate between them; they know their characteristics and can tell you which ones are best for growing where.”

With the so-called Green Revolution of the 1950s and 60s, all this was threatened. In America and Europe, agriculture had shifted toward corporate models that relied on heavy mechanization, lab-developed varieties of high-yield crops, monocultures, and chemical fertilizers and pesticides. As an institution, small-scale farming was viewed as dangerously antiquated. Leaders such as American agronomist Norman Borlaug, whose efforts won him a Nobel Prize in 1970, worked tirelessly to spread the new technologies to developing nations.

“In application, this entailed scientists from the rich countries coming in and replacing traditional seeds with hybridized varieties,” says Hobbelink. In time, corporatized systems would render indigenous farmers obsolete. Hunger would thus become a thing of the past.

However, the upgrade carried unforeseen costs. As farmers shifted toward growing a handful of varieties of corn, soybeans, and wheat, native seedstock was abandoned. Crop diversity disappeared at a staggering rate.

“Though we don’t have specific figures, the scientific consensus is that 75 percent of the world’s crop diversity was lost over the course of the 20th century,” says Pat Mooney, a plant genetic resources expert with the Action Group on Erosion, Technology and Concentration. “In one instance, when a high-yield variety of rice was introduced to South Asia, more than 100,000 native varieties went extinct within a couple of years.”

Scientists were alarmed. To create new varieties of plants, agricultural researchers needed genetic material. Still, with its promise of big yields, profitability, and reduced work, the Green Revolution was spreading at a breakneck pace. In an effort to preserve crop diversity for the future, the world rushed to install seed banks.

In Ethiopia, though, Worede saw this remedy as insufficient. He believed farmers’ knowledge and know-how of their crops was an equally important part of biodiversity—a resource that couldn’t be warehoused. He urged small farmers to hold tight to their seeds and traditions.

“Melaku felt the idea that farmers should turn to international corporations to purchase seeds, equipment, and the synthetic materials needed to make them grow was ludicrous,” says Hobbelink. For Worede, it was essentially a hostile takeover: Western corporations were seeking to expand into new markets and create a monopoly under the guise of progress. “The biggest problem was that these crops were engineered not to produce viable seeds, so seeds would have to be bought anew each year,” says Hobbelink.

From Worede’s point of view, this would turn self-sufficient farmers into agricultural consumers. Furthermore, the methods seemed to view environmental degradation as collateral damage.

“Though the seed banks technically had a goal of preserving diversity, most of them were keeping seeds frozen and ex-situ,” says Mooney. Divorced from farmers’ fields and natural pressures such as disease and climate change, the varieties can’t adapt or evolve. Were they to be planted 100 years from now, their chances of survival would be slim. “Melaku advocated a very different approach,” Mooney continues. “He thought that scientists should adopt a model of active participation and work with farmers to keep the seeds in rotation. That way, you can preserve copies in a central bank, but add new varieties as they’re developed in the fields.”

Raised in an Ethiopian farming village, Worede received a Ph.D. in agronomy from the University of Nebraska. Upon observing U.S. factory farming practices and academic attitudes toward traditional farming communities, he became deeply disturbed.

“The attitude was, ‘This is the future of farming,’” says Worede. “There was an arrogance; the scientists were dismissive of farmers.” But for him, this discounted 10,000 years of practical knowledge and experience. “Farmers were the original scientists,” he says. “They understand far more about these plants than someone in a white lab coat ever will.”

Returning to Ethiopia, Worede had an unprecedented idea. He believed that partnering with farmers’ seed banks could empower existing agricultural communities to become powerful resources for the preservation and innovation of crop diversity.

How would it work? Agronomists would learn from the farmers, and vice versa. The latter would serve as researchers in the field. The former would facilitate collaboration among farming communities, study and catalog farmers’ findings, and play a supporting role by disseminating information and varieties, and providing additional resources and on-the-ground assistance.

In 1976, a partnership between Germany and the Ethiopian government led to the establishment of a plant genetic resources center—i.e. seed bank—and Worede was named the program’s director. Initially the mission was straightforward: to acquire copies of native seeds and circulate knowledge of modern best practices among farmers. But when a vicious drought struck in the early 1980s, that changed.

Food was so scarce that rural farmers were being forced to eat seeds they typically saved for spring planting. So Worede mobilized the organization’s staff. Tearing through the countryside on motorcycles and in jeeps, he was determined to help save the farmers and, with them, millennia of Ethiopian crop diversity.

“We traveled to villages and exchanged grain for the farmers’ seeds,” says Worede. “When it came time to plant, we promised to give the seeds back to them.”

The crisis and outreach had unforeseen benefits. For one, the institute now possessed a comprehensive collection of seeds. But more importantly, a direct relationship with the farmers had been established. The value of that connection became apparent as Worede returned the seeds.“In many instances, the scientists had lumped together seeds that were actually very different,” says Hobbelink. “Melaku would go to return them and the women [who in Ethiopian farming communities are responsible for managing and storing seedstocks] would poke fun at him for combining the different types. We couldn’t tell the difference. Yet here were these women, naming what were, for scientists, undiscovered varieties. And not only that, they could tell you their specific characteristics, the conditions they were adapted to, and their uses.”

One of Worede’s favorite examples is a variety of sorghum known among Wollo farmers as wotet begunche, or “milk in my mouth.” Extremely high in protein, the variety was cultivated to nourish children and pregnant women. What’s more, trade had spread it across the country. Prior to talking with farmers, scientists didn’t know the plant existed, much less that it had been adapted for use throughout Ethiopia.

By 1989, Worede had effected a pioneering transformation by partnering directly with farmers. That year, Worede was presented with a Right Livelihood Award for “preserving Ethiopia’s genetic wealth by building one of the finest seed conservation centers in the world.” His work with farmers was cited as foundational to the achievement.

Today, conservationists look to Worede’s work and the Ethiopian Biodiversity Institute as a model for preserving horticultural diversity. The institution has grown to include 21 community-based genetic resource centers across Ethiopia, including 17 for the study and collection of wild and medicinal plants.

“When Melaku started doing all this, he was condemned as being anti-science,” says Hobbelink. “And yet, if you attended a United Nations’ meeting about crop diversity in 2018, you would have invariably heard his work referred to as setting the modern standard in terms of true conservation.”

In Wyoming, a buzzworthy bug mystery hits the stage.

The Rocky Mountain locust once ran the American West. For decades, it swarmed the United States from Minnesota to the coast, eating pioneers out of house and home. One legendary gathering, of perhaps 3.5 trillion insects, is thought to be the largest concentration of animals in recorded history. It was "an earnest and overwhelming visitation," one spectator wrote at the time. "[They] demonstrated with an amazing rapidity that their appetite was voracious, and that everything green belonged to them for their sustenance."

Then, around the turn of the century, the species vanished. The last one was seen alive in 1902. "The locust caused terrible human suffering, but then we lost this iconic creature," says Jeffrey Lockwood, an entomologist at the University of Wyoming. "It was a species that defined the Western landscape."

This past weekend, the long-lost bug briefly showed up somewhere unexpected: onstage, singing, and wearing a sparkling dress. Locust: The Opera premiered on September 28, 2018, at the National Museum of Wildlife Art in Jackson, Wyoming. Through arias and recitatives, it tells the tale of the Rocky Mountain locust—what it was, why it disappeared, and what we can still learn from its story.

Lockwood began studying the Rocky Mountain locust about 30 years ago, when he first moved to Wyoming. While people had proposed various reasons for the creature's downfall, he says, none of them quite added up, and solving the mystery "became a fascination." He trawled through old accounts of locusts blotting out the skies. He traveled to some of the various glaciers where the bugs are preserved, exhuming frozen individuals to test out different hypotheses.

In 2000, he published a book laying out his own theory. Like many insects, locusts have uneven population cycles. During boom times, they ranged all over the West. But in leaner years, the swarms "collapsed back into the well-drained, fertile, sandy river valleys of the Rockies," Lockwood says. "That was sort of its sanctuary." Pioneers, of course, were drawn to the exact same places. They plowed fields, chopped down trees, and rerouted rivers. "There was wholesale habitat destruction," he says. "The entire system collapsed."

Lockwood was happy to have arrived at a more robust theory. But the insect wasn't done with him yet. "I've come over the years to enjoy opera," he says. "The story of the Rocky Mountain locust had this epic scale, of time and place and drama, that lent itself to an operatic treatment." So he decided to write a libretto.

As he had never done this before, he approached the task scientifically, calculating the average number of words per minute for several of his favorite operas, and using that as a guide. He ended up with three characters: a scientist, a rancher, and the ghost of the Rocky Mountain locust. "She is haunting the scientist until he can come up with an explanation for how her [species] was killed," he says.

When he was done, he took it to another University of Wyoming professor, the composer Anne Guzzo. "If you think about a giant swarm of locusts, a bunch of bugs, it's kind of icky," she says. "They eat everything. It could be this gross thing, or terrifying." Instead, she decided to think of the locust's story as a tragedy. "I took her music, and I tried to make it the most beautiful, sparkling, gorgeous thing I could do," she says. (The locust was played by the soprano Cristin Colvin, who told the University of Wyoming press office that she was "thrilled to perform a role in which I am not purely human, but a dream figure.")

For the scientist's parts, Guzzo skewed more modern, getting across his mindset with "interrupted phrases, and jumpy music." The rancher, she says, is "not as convoluted and as stuck in his head as the scientist. He gets a more earthy sound." The audience was tasked with playing the swarm, by rustling pieces of tissue paper from their seats.

The premiere was well-received. (It "made perfect sense," wrote the critic Richard Anderson, who also pointed out that the story involved "more death than all the rest of the operatic repertoire put together.") This particular run was short—it only lasted the weekend—but Locust: The Opera will be performed at least one more time, in March 2019, at the 13th International Congress of Orthopterology in Morocco. Its creators are also seeking funding to bring it elsewhere.

Even after all of this, the story of the Rocky Mountain locust hasn't quite let go of Lockwood. It might be because this bug resembles another animal, equally voracious and equally fragile. "Our species is highly mobile, profligate, and abundant," he points out. "So is the locust. One of the lessons is, being abundant doesn't ensure survival." We can only hope that someday, the cockroaches write an opera about us.

You tried to travel elsewhere, but they just keep pulling you back in.

Once or twice a year I travel from New York to Salt Lake City, Utah, where I grew up. These trips are often necessitated by old friends’ weddings or family obligations (visiting my family is a joy, not an obligation, Hi, Mom!). But increasingly I find myself returning for more personal reasons. Specifically, whenever I'm able to slip away, I stop by a semi-hidden staircase on a hill that cuts between a number of downtown apartment buildings. Years ago I would sit in the middle of that staircase, surrounded by tall buildings on every side, and fantasize about living in a big city like New York. It’s pretty much just an unremarkable alleyway, but that spot became incredibly important to me. Even though my life (not to mention the city surrounding that staircase) has changed drastically over the years, I love to return there, and to those moments when that unremarkable alley held all the possibility in the world for me.

When we get the opportunity to travel, it can feel almost like a responsibility to explore someplace new. But for many of us, there are also places that just keep calling us back, again and again. Maybe it’s a specific scenic view that’s managed to lodge itself permanently in your memory. Or perhaps it’s that one restaurant, the one that you end up planning whole trips around, just to experience some unforgettable dish, one more time. No matter where it is, we want to hear about the place you keep returning to.

Fill out the form below to tell us about the place you you can't stay away from. We’ll collect some of our favorite reader responses in an upcoming article. If you have pictures of your chosen place that you'd like to share, you can email them to eric@atlasobscura.com, with the subject line, “Returning.” We can’t wait to hear about the place so nice you visited twice (or three, or eight, or 100 times)!

Hurricane Stan hit 13 years ago today.

On October 3, 2005, Hurricane Stan entered the Gulf of Mexico and devastated towns on the Mexican coast, along with six other Central American countries: Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, El Salvador, Belize, and Guatemala. Stan hit the Yucatan Peninsula first but Guatemala had the highest death toll and most damage. At its peak, Hurricane Stan’s winds clocked in at a dizzying 80 miles per hour, causing it to reach Category One status. Now, 13 years later, environmental groups focused on biodiversity and improving land-use practices are working to shore up the earth in the countries Stan compromised.

The flash floods that accompanied the hurricane uprooted lucrative Central American coffee crops, and gave way to landslides that ultimately were responsible for a (modestly estimated) 1,668 deaths, about 800 of them in Guatemala. There, heavy rains were the catalyst for landslides of mud and rock that blanketed the entire town of Panabaj, a village on the edge of Lake Atitlán, which once boasted a population of roughly 3,000 people. After Hurricane Stan 400 residents had died or disappeared. A census has not been taken in the town since.

In advance of the hurricane, roughly 100,000 Gulf Coast inhabitants were evacuated from their homes. But scores of people in Panabaj, which was once the center of the Tz’utuhil Mayan civilization, were unable to get out in time. This Indigenous Maya community, located in the western highlands of Guatemala, suffered so many losses that the mayor of Santiago Atitlán, Diego Esquina Mendoza, described it as a mass grave. His pronouncement came after days of trying to excavate the locals’ decomposing bodies from the soft, muddied soil of their ancestors. The final death count was estimated, because it was impossible to retrieve all of the remains due to the height of the mud and potential for the spread of disease.

The sudden public cemetery has had troubling mental health effects on survivors, who have been unable to properly claim and honor their deceased loved ones in line with Mayan cultural traditions that emphasize burial practices, offering little to no closure unless bodies were eventually found. Post-disaster, after her family members’ remains were found, survivor Maria Tiney Xicay told the Associated Press: "I came and even built altars, but I didn't know where my family members were. Now, I'm at peace. I can bury them."

Panabaj was left vulnerable to the whims of sliding land in large part because of deforestation. Without trees to serve as speed bumps, the mud was able to cover large swaths of area much more quickly; it is unsurprising, then, that Guatemalans are still concerned about rainfall today. According to Global Forest Watch, Guatemala lost 1.32 millihectares of tree cover between 2001 and 2017, which is equivalent to a 17 percent decrease since 2000. Urbanization and commodity-driven deforestation are to blame, but a new global conservation model is trying to change that.

In Guatemala, the Maya Biosphere Reserve is a 5 million-acre contiguous natural forest, and is the largest in Mesoamerica. Run by a collection of eleven forest concessions, the Rainforest Alliance’s program “boasts a near-zero deforestation rate.” This move to halt deforestation in a land still susceptible to deathly levels of rainfall has created jobs—with the caveat that they must be focused on sustainability—within the Indigenous community whose livelihood depends upon the forest. But, more broadly, it is a proactive effort to ensure that lives and a village that preserved ancient Maya culture is not lost to a hurricane in the future.

Even still, Guatemala’s deforestation efforts might never be a match for Mother Nature. Dr. Walter E. Little, a professor of anthropology at SUNY Albany focusing on Mesoamerica, has been working in Guatemala since the late 1980s. Of the area where Panabaj once thrived, he says: “The region is particularly vulnerable. From September to October you can have earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, hurricanes—which can sometimes happen all at once.” Hurricane Stan affected a wide area, but Little says that “landslides around [Lake Atitlán] like what happened with Stan happen every time there’s a tropical storm.”

Farmland was once the main use of the space down by the water, where the Maya grew onion and corn. Today, lakeside estates built by tourists have taken over the decidedly dangerous soil. Among the locals, there’s general acceptance of the fact that natural disasters will happen. While the destruction of Panabaj was felt for years after Hurricane Stan’s entrance, Little believes “most people on the lake have put Hurricane Stan behind them.”

The 2005 disaster is “certainly a part of who they are,” says Little, “but the people I work with would much rather focus on positive things.”

Police suspect a rival grape-grower got a little jelly.

Somewhere in Southern Germany, thieves may soon be clinking glasses of illicitly-acquired Riesling to a particularly massive plunder. Last week, more than 3,500 pounds of grapes, valued at around $9,200, were stolen from a vineyard in Deidesheim. Vanishing sometime after an otherwise uneventful Wednesday afternoon, it’s likely they were plucked in plain sight.

Local police suspect the heisters used a "professional harvesting machine over the entire vineyard” to carry out the gargantuan grape grab. According to officials, these machines are used frequently in vineyards around dusk, so onlookers would have no reason to suspect pilferage upon first glance. In fact, it’s quite possible there were several unknowing witnesses to the crime, as the vineyard lies next to the parking lot of a major supermarket.

Germany’s Rhineland-Palatinate region is renowned for its Riesling and sparkling wine, home to 13,000 vineyards that account for nearly 90% of the nation’s wine exports. So, perhaps it’s no surprise that this isn’t the first grand grape thievery that’s gone down. According to the BBC, the surrounding district saw well over 1,000 pounds of grapes vanish just last year.

So who is responsible—in this case, and similar ones? Police suspect the culprits are rivalrous local vintners, as they have access to the machinery required to carry out the crime at such a large scale. Besides, they note, the thieves appeared to have the discerning eyes of grape-growers familiar with the fruit—they stole only the best grapes, just as they reached peak ripeness.

Similar pillages have recently swept vineyards across France, Switzerland, and the United States. To deter thieves, vintners in France have stationed environmental officers to patrol vineyards on horseback, keeping their eyes peeled for nefarious activity. Perhaps Germany will follow suit. Until then, officials remain determined to track down those responsible for the crime spurred by sour grapes.

A metaphor for weathering a storm.

Flags don’t fare well in storms. Richard Neal knows this, because he’s been through it before. He always keeps a flag flying above the Frying Pan Tower, the decommissioned Coast Guard light station that he purchased in 2010, which marks dangerous shoals roughly 35 miles from the North Carolina coast. It’s hard enough out there for a flag, even under the best skies—the average one lasts about a month, he says—and storms just eat them up. Hurricanes Matthew and Andrew chewed through flags years ago, but Neal didn’t think Florence would have such sharp teeth, so he didn't take the flag down. By the time he realized how strong the storm would be, it was too late. The flag would have to weather it.

A camera mounted on the tower streams the scene in real-time. Like countless other viewers, Neal tuned in to see how the flag was hanging on. Above gray, white-capped waves, the flag demonstrated the full ferocity of the wind, which blew up to 100 miles an hour.

At first, Neal didn’t want to watch. He could access the camera remotely, and “I turned the camera away from the flag when I saw it starting to tear,” he says. “But then I started getting text messages and phone calls saying ‘Turn it back!’ When you watch it, you feel awful for watching, but you couldn’t turn away.” Some viewers dubbed the flag "Kevin" and made multiple Twitter accounts inspired by the scrappy little, well, scraps. (Neal swears he wasn’t behind them.) Eventually, though, the tower lost power and the live feed cut out.

When Neal returned, he found the flag, mostly shredded, but still attached to the pole. The stars were all intact, and some of the stripes, too. He decided to auction it off and donate all of the proceeds to the American Red Cross.

Dozens of people vied for the iconic banner on eBay. The winning bid of $10,900 came from the family of Kevin Caruso, a Cincinnati man who recently passed away. It wasn't just about the name: Caruso's family thought the flag’s ordeal was a fitting remembrance. “He and that flag were at the center of a great storm, staying calm, standing firm,” Kevin’s brother, Mike, told the Charlotte News & Observer. "People kept asking through the storm: ‘Is Kevin still there?’ And it was always still there, still standing.”

Not only does it taste gross, but castor oil was used as an instrument of political control for years.

Earlier this week, the Secret Service opened up a series of suspicious envelopes sent to the Pentagon. Inside, they found castor seeds. Small, shiny, and mottled, the seeds contain enough poison that as few as four of them could kill an adult human. By Tuesday evening, a man in Utah had been arrested in connection with the case. He quickly confessed.

The poison found in castor seeds, ricin, is less deadly than anthrax, but thousands of times stronger than cyanide or rattlesnake venom. Ricin has a long history of being deployed for political means. But another product of castor seeds—castor oil, the dreaded substance once fed to children as medicine—also has a surprising role in the history of political threats and punishment.

How can castor seeds be so dangerous and castor oil be safe for children? Produced with the right technique, the pure oil of the seeds is not a danger; the mash left behind contains the ricin. Isolated, ricin has been used in political assassinations, including the famous umbrella murder, when a Soviet dissident was stabbed in public with a poisoned umbrella tip. During World War II, the U.S. experimented with weaponizing ricin, by coating bullets with the poison or including it in bombs.

But even castor oil has been used for harm. It’s strong stuff, used as a motor oil, in paint and varnish, and as a lamp fuel going back thousands of years. In small doses, it was long used to treat all manner of ailments.

Castor oil has a strong laxative effect. That is, anyone who takes too much will quickly develop a bad case of diarrhea. And in colonial Africa and South Asia as well as in fascist Italy, castor oil became an instrument of political control.

In colonial households and plantations, workers who were suspected of pleading illness to shirk work might be dosed with half a bottle of castor oil as punishment. “Then they’d tell ‘em the next time they’ll, they’ll ah, give ‘em a whole bottle,” one witness reported later.

In Italy, under Mussolini, political opponents would be forced to down so much castor oil that people sometimes died from dehydration from the resulting diarrhea. (The beatings that went along with this assault didn’t help.)

Because of the less disturbing uses of castor oil—and because it makes a pretty ornamental plant—castor seeds grow all over the world. During the 1950s, the U.S. government incentivized farmers in the southwest to grow castor plants in order to increase castor oil production for military use. The trials of weaponized ricin during the 1940s took place in Utah, too.

The man who confessed to sending the castor seeds to the Pentagon said he bought them. But if you see anyone collecting castor seeds for no particular reason... best be cautious.

In his short 24 years, Nick Gabaldón made an impact on California surfing culture that is still felt today.

On June 5, 1951, 24-year-old Nick Gabaldón surfed his last wave in Malibu, California, crashing his board and disappearing into the water. In his short life, Gabaldón made an impact on surfing culture which is still felt today. Credited as being one of the first-documented surfers of African-American and Mexican-American descent, he is remembered as a rebel who challenged the idea of who belongs on California beaches.

On the boardwalk of Santa Monica’s Bay Street Beach, within a small cluster of palm trees, is a small plaque that reads: “A place of celebration and pain.” The plaque describes the fact that in the first half of the 20th century, this beach was one of the few beaches in Los Angeles County where African Americans felt they could come and enjoy the ocean free of harassment, and it’s where Gabaldón got his start.

Born in 1927, Gabaldón grew up and went to high school in Santa Monica. He would sometimes skip class to hang out at the beach, remembered his friend and classmate Wayne King in a 2012 documentary called 12 Miles North. A skilled bodysurfer, Gabaldón gained the attention of Buzzy Trent, who worked as a lifeguard and went on to become a famous surfer. Trent, who was white, took a liking to young Gabaldón and invited him to surf with him and his friends in Malibu.

Gabaldón would famously paddle 12 miles from Santa Monica to surf with Trent in Malibu. “It’s really insanely hard to paddle that far,” says Richard Yelland, director of 12 Miles North. Yelland doesn’t know why Gabaldón paddled all the way to Malibu, but he says some people think it was to avoid racist confrontation outside the familiar boundaries of Santa Monica. “What better way to access the beach if you weren’t 100 percent welcome to walk across the sand?” says Yelland.

Gabaldón would have never become a surfer if it wasn’t for his time riding waves at the Bay Street Beach. But besides the commemorative plaque, nothing at the beach serves to indicate the racial history of the place, which not only produced Gabaldón but some of the country’s most iconic African-American beach culture. Alison Rose Jefferson, a historian of California, wants to change that.

Nick Gabaldón Day was first organized in 2013 by Jefferson and the Black Surfers Collective as a way to give free introductory surf lessons to African-American kids in the community. Now, the annual event draws in hundreds of people from around Los Angeles.

To begin the day, a group of surfers paddle out past the surf line and throw flowers in the water to honor lives lost in the ocean. "The event is commemorating this fallen surfer,” says Jefferson, “but also all the people who struggled to use that beach over the years.” The programming has changed from year to year and has included documentary screenings, lectures, and music.

The annual June event focuses partly on the historic struggle of African Americans to hang out at beaches free of harassment. Even in California where, Jefferson says, there were no official Jim Crow laws, discrimination was informally enforced through hostility or harassment, and more formally through real estate. According to her research, in the 1920s, Santa Monica officials stymied efforts of African-American investors to develop the waterfront. “They tried to put up a beach resort and the governmental authorities and the town citizens said, ‘No, you can’t build your resort,’” says Jefferson. As soon as the land passed to non-African-American owners, officials changed the law and allowed white developers to build. Jefferson says that the “pain” on the Bay Street Beach plaque refers to that racist history.

However, many African-Americans who grew up going to the Bay Street Beach don’t associate it with pain. Carolyne Edwards, a 78-year-old African-American woman who grew up in Santa Monica and runs a local oral history project called the Quinn Research Center, spent her childhood at the beach. She remembers going there with her family for holidays, eating watermelon, and building sand castles. “It was not a place of pain and suffering,” she says. “If anything, it was joy and fun for kids. It was a family type of environment.”

Edwards says her uncles and friends were boogie boarders and bodysurfers, and should be remembered alongside Gabaldón. They were also important to the history of the beach and they should be on the plaque as well, she says. Her list includes her uncle Alfred Quinn, and his friends Boyd Carter, A.D. Williams, and R.C. Owen, to name a few.

Jefferson says she thinks Gabaldón’s fame has a lot to do with the fact that he was accepted by prominent white surfers in Malibu, such as Trent and Mickey Munoz. Whereas Edwards’s friends and family might have gone unnoticed, Gabaldón’s acceptance with that group put him on the map. “The white people knew who he was,” she says. “And they’re the ones who determined at some point who was important and who wasn’t.”

Nevertheless, his legacy, it seems, is most important to a new generation of African-American surfers who, like Gabaldón, are trying to make space for themselves in the white-dominated and sometimes racially hostile culture of surfing.

51-year-old Remy Smith is a lifeguard captain with the Los Angeles Fire Department. He started surfing when he was 30 and it’s now a huge part of his life.

Smith says African-American surfers are often judged before they even hit the water. When Smith learned about Gabaldón, he was inspired. “His story is definitely uplifting because he went through a lot at that time,” he says. Smith says when he encounters racism when surfing, it motivates him to be better, and he imagines Gabaldón was probably the same way. “People are telling you, you can’t do it, and that makes you want to do it even more. You want to be stronger and better and work harder,” he says.

Smith has a house in Santa Monica four blocks from the ocean, and his first time surfing was at the Bay Street Beach. He says the neighborhood is almost entirely white-owned now, and he’s one of the few African-American residents still living there. He has been to almost every Nick Gabaldón Day and says he is most excited about getting people in the water. “It’s cool because they do surf lessons for kids and adults,” he says. “There’s a lot of adults that can’t even swim and they need guidance and help.”

In Southern California, coastal access is dominated by majority-white communities, and African Americans are among the lowest represented ethnicity in areas where the best beaches are. Racial demographic maps show non-Hispanic white populations form a strong majority among almost every coastal community on the southern California coast. Coastal cities within Los Angeles County, such as Malibu and Santa Monica, are 84 and 65 percent non-Hispanic white, respectively, while the County is 27 percent non-Hispanic white as a whole. Within the city of Los Angeles, beach areas such as Venice and the Pacific Palisades are 69 and 84 percent non-Hispanic white, respectively, despite being only a quarter of the city’s population.

Smith says there are only a handful of African-American lifeguards in the L.A. County Fire Department, out of hundreds. When he goes to Nick Gabaldón Day, he is partly there to recruit young people to become lifeguards. He says a lot of children of color living inland don’t have the opportunity to explore California beaches. “Access to the water just isn’t there,” he says, “and if you don’t have the resources to pay for it, it’s hard.”

According to Jefferson, Nick Gabaldón Day can be more than just about celebrating African-American beach culture and introducing young people to surfing. It is also a time to critically think about who belongs in the waves, and what it means to challenge the norms around the sport of surfing.

As part of this year’s celebratory weekend, Jefferson organized panels, documentaries, and discussions to allow the public to learn about the critiques of male- and white-dominated surfing culture. The program included Elizabeth Pepin Silva’s film La Maestra, which is about a female surfer in Mexico, and a panel about The Critical Surf Studies Reader, which explores how surfing was exploited by non-natives for tourism in Hawaii, among other critiques.

Jefferson says these are “critical counter voices” when it comes to understanding what surfing is and who it’s for. “Gabaldón was challenging racial hierarchies in the Jim Crow Era,” she says, “these scholars and activists are challenging other things. They’re all pioneers.”

Now, the Bay Street Beach looks like just any other on the Los Angeles coast. It’s a good spot for beginner surfers, and hundreds can be found in the waves every weekend. As time passes, Jefferson and others feel it’s important that its history is known. “It’s an evolving discovery,” she says.

Three days after his disappearance, Gabaldón’s body was found by the coast guard and identified by his grief-stricken surfing friends. “Multiple grown men cried to me when they recounted the story,” says Yelland. “They really felt that he was a beautiful example of a person who died way too young in a tragic accident.”

In his short life, Gabaldón managed to change the world of surfing. His trips from Santa Monica to Malibu allowed him to surf some of the best waves in the world with some of the most famous surfers at the time. His skill and character made him unforgettable. “He was one of the guys in the water,” says Yelland. “Nick is a beacon in the sport of modern surfing.”

Manuel Choqque Bravo’s delicious, colorful creations are adored by world-class chefs.

Manuel Choqque Bravo, a fourth generation potato farmer in the Andean highlands of Chinchero, is about to perform a magic show. He lines up multiple deformed tubers, indigenous to the area best known for its proximity to Machu Picchu, and one by one slices them in half, revealing a color spectrum of intense violet and gold hues.

He’s a veteran to such presentations, so he knows to pause and let his audience savor their first glimpse of the beloved papa andina that has captured his heart and driven him to change the world’s view of tubers.

“People think the potato has no healthy properties, but the truth is far from that,” he says in the soft-spoken, lyrical cadence typical to his hometown. Bravo has made it his mission to resculpt the world’s view of the potato by creating unique potato hybrids—packed with nutrients and flavor—on his family’s farm.

Bravo, just shy of his 32nd birthday, grew up running through his family’s fields. The expectation that he continue in his father’s footsteps weighed on him as a young man.

“I always had that pressure, but at first I believed being in the fields was synonymous with an atraso, backwardness,” he says, “just like many youngsters in Peru today who emigrate to the cities because they believe working in the fields will result in the same conditions as that of their parents.”

In high school, he decided to pursue law, but as fate would have it, he arrived late to school and ended up in the wrong class. “I accidentally signed up for a botany class and from that moment on was hooked. I thought, ‘Wow, plants are just like the human body—they have veins.’”

Afterward, he headed off to the Universidad San Antonio Abad in Cusco, the first of his family, the first of his entire village, to attend university. He studied agricultural engineering and then worked at the Centro Internacional de la Papa (the International Potato Center).

If there’s going to be an international center for potatoes, it makes perfect sense that it would be in Peru. Estimates of the number of tuber varieties in the country fall anywhere between a robust 3,000 and 5,000 types, and it is believed that the tuber was domesticated around 8,000 years ago on the mountain slopes near Lake Titicaca. Since then, Peruvians have embraced the potato in their cuisine with dishes such as causas and papas a la huancaina (yellow potatoes in a spicy, creamy sauce).

Bravo is not the first to tinker with the potato. The Inkas used the same valley for their own version of agricultural engineering, building enormous circular terraces carved out of the mountainside in nearby Moray. These stacked fields emulated the microclimates of different slopes, which, archeologists theorize, allowed it to be used as a kind of agricultural research station.

“The truth is we are connected from the beginning,” says Bravo. “All the work I have done, I began with native potatoes that were varieties the Inkas had.”

There are countless varieties, and almost all of them have some form of natural pigmentation. What stands out with Bravo’s is the intensity, or increased pigmentation, of his colorful potatoes. It’s a result of his determination to not only preserve, but to perfect the potential of Peru’s revered crop.

“At first I thought everything I had learned at the university was the same as what I learned from my father working in the farm,” says Bravo. “It affected me a lot. I thought, ‘No, I cannot continue with the same concept.’” He emerged determined to research new, innovative ways to breed potatoes.

He spent some time working at the Instituto Nacional de Innovación Agraria, better known as INIA, the state department’s agricultural hub. It was here that Bravo saw a future in developing pigmented hybrids on his family’s farm.

In 2008, he began collecting different potato varieties from the surrounding communities and adapting them to his district of Chincero in Urubamba, a process that proved fruitful because the tubers shared the same climate.

“Back then, my objective was as a conservationist. [I wanted] to obtain and grow a diversity of native potatoes. It was more of a hobby.” Before long, though, he found himself obsessing over the tubers, determined to improve upon each one.

Urubamba is a town in the Sacred Valley, the 37-mile stretch of fertile land where he is from. It’s also home to the luxury property Tambo del Inka, whose proprietors were the first to take notice of his work.

“I knocked on so many doors, over 30 hotels and restaurants, without success,” says Bravo. “People would say, ‘Oh, fantastic, we’ll call you,’ but they never called me back.”

He tried selling his produce at the local market but shoppers were skeptical. Some said his potatoes were diseased, simply because they had never seen potatoes like that. Frustrated, Bravo found himself at the gated entrance of Tambo del Inka.

“I didn’t know what it was, if it was a hotel or a restaurant or what. I just saw a huge luxury property. He smiles as he recalls the moment the watchman greeted him. He handed the guard a copy of the creased square paper he carried, which read: "Selling native potatoes, by Manuel Choqque Bravo." He asked if he could hand it to the chef.

Chef Victor Alvarez did receive the note and was intrigued, immediately calling Bravo back.

Now, Bravo visits the property regularly, usually with one of his eight siblings, to showcase his potatoes to those staying at the hotel. Alongside the burbling Vilcanota River, with the inspiring Chicón mountain as a backdrop, he lays out his tubers over brilliantly colored alpaca tablecloths and exposes their inner secrets one by one.

Potatoes are self-pollinated, which means they have the male and female flowers in one plant. Farmers tend to plant chunks of last season’s crop, which grow identical tubers. There’s no cross-breeding, unless you intervene, as Bravo learned to do, through meticulous hand-pollination. With the patience and care of a surgeon, Bravo manually removes pollen from one potato flower and sprinkles it onto another variety’s flower, then waits to see the resulting hybrid. Working alongside his older brother, Elmer, who helps tend the potatoes, he crossbreeds the potatoes with the highest pigmentation. So far, he’s created 70 pigmented hybrids.

Bravo looks down at the row of rubies, indigos, and even charcoal potatoes. With each new generation, the subsequent potato’s hue becomes more intense.

“Estas papas son especiales,” he declares passionately before delving into their unique benefits. The purple variety has high antioxidant properties, and the red is loaded with vitamin E and vitamin C.

Today he sells his potatoes to numerous hotels and restaurants, including to Chef Virgilio Martinez, the man behind Peru’s most regaled restaurant, Central. Bravo admits with a nervous chuckle that he did not know Martinez’s stature in Peru’s culinary world until he read an article that pegged him as the best chef in the world.

Upon learning that, Bravo was determined to share his potatoes with Martinez. After almost half a year of reaching out with tales of artisanal potatoes never seen before, Martinez answered back.

“Bravo’s tubers have special value for us, not just because of their quality, but because of the entire process,” says Martinez. “It is not something usually seen. His tubers have a 10-year history of transformation, whose purpose is to guarantee a better product.”

The Lima-based eatery, as well as an affiliated research center helmed by Martinez and his wife, Chef Pia León, are devoted to the culinary exploration of Peru’s biodiversity. Bravo’s potatoes fit right in and now feature prominently.

With each pigmentation comes a unique flavor profile as well. The hybrids with yellow pigment are very flavorful, slightly sweet, and versatile. Purple varieties are quite creamy and have an earthy, nutty flavor to them, whereas red varieties tend to be sweeter. Each lend themselves to varying preparations.

“Some are great to fry, while others boil well,” Bravo explains. “The exciting thing for the chef is to play around with the varieties [in] different dishes.” Using Bravo’s potatoes to make causa, for example, turns the layered mashed potatoes (accompanied by chicken or seafood salad) into a visual masterpiece of purples and reds.

But Bravo has more than potatoes to offer. His boyish face makes his inquisitive nature infectious as he describes projects that include similar transformations of mashuas and ocas, as well as a wine made by fermenting these two tubers. While others coined the term vino de oca, or oca wine, he calls it Miskioca (miski means sweet in the Quechuan language). Bravo is the sole inventor of the beverage, whose flavor quickly attracted Martinez’s interest, and varies by the tuber. An almost-black variety yields a darker wine, while lighter tubers produce crisp, floral flavors similar to rosé.

In 2018, this, and his innovative potato work, garnered Bravo Summum's prestigious “Producer of the Year” award, Peru’s Oscars of the culinary world.

“No me lo esperaba,” he says in an inaudible whisper, before repeating again that he didn’t expect it at all. Bravo doesn’t enjoy the spotlight. He’s much more comfortable on his family farm, surrounded by his tubers, working his magic one by one.

“In reality, I want to change the system,” he says. “The whole world thinks potatoes are just to fill up the belly. That’s a lie!”

Readers share what makes their favorite treetop hideaways so special.

Last month, we asked Atlas Obscura readers to tell us about their favorite treehouses. Why treehouses? Because we love almost everything about them—the childlike sense of wonder they inspire, the quirks and secret cubbyholes that make each one unique. Also, we're nosy. Treehouses are often hidden in backyards, stubbornly refusing to reveal themselves to passersby. We want to see them!

The submissions we received revealed magical tree-based structures of all sorts, from an elevated fort inspired by young love to a hanging shelter that required more than a little engineering know-how. Overall, you also told us how your favorite treehouses are all the more impressive for the memories they represent.

Below you'll find a selection of some of our favorite submissions. Every treehouse has the potential to make the world a little more wondrous—with any luck, one of these stories will inspire you to look up at the leaves and dream.

An Inspired Getaway

Pasadena, California

“Built it myself after seeing an article in Smithsonian Magazine. Solar power run lights, radio, and TV.” — Mike Caveney, Pasadena, California

Building Memories

Lanett, Alabama

“During my doctoral program, my boys dreamed it up while watching Treehouse Masters. ‘We could do that!’ So I let them design it. It took two years of weekends, several friends, and family, but we finally completed it in April. We reclaimed as much wood as possible. The siding is from an old fence at my in-laws'. It’s magical at night with all the lights on. But my most favorite part is that I built it with my boys. A forever memory.” — Michael Plank, Lanett, Alabama

Hanging Hideaway

Central Oregon

“My brother and I built it over the summer of 2002 in a trio of Ponderosa pines on my off-grid property in Oregon. All hand tools, no electricity, or even a cordless drill. It's about 25-feet up, suspended with cables so it sways with the trees in the wind. We built the floor platform on the ground, then hoisted it up into place using a large pulley and my pickup truck. We then added the walls and roof up there, swinging around in rock climbing harnesses and pulling materials up with the pulley. Only way up is to climb a tree and hoist yourself up through a trapdoor in the porch floor. I sleep on the porch up there whenever I can make it out to my property. Because the trees grow at different rates, we need to re-level it every few years using turnbuckles in the suspension cables.” — Kevin Tracy, Michigan

Grandson's House

Chapin, South Carolina

"It was our present to our two-year-old grandson who just turned five. We wanted to construct something he could grow up with and enjoy into adulthood. It is also big enough to put lawn chairs for the adults to sit back and enjoy. It overlooks the chicken coops on one side, our garden on the other, and the biggest view is downhill to the lake. My husband has used it to watch deer at dawn. It's constructed around a hickory tree and under the canopy of other hickories, pines, and even one dogwood, and has a coach lap outside the stairs. We built it with stairs and a landing, dedicated it to our grandson, naming it Fort Jackson. The goal is to install a drop down ladder to the underneath of it when he is 7 years old. It's equally a deer stand and an adult watering hole.” — C. Hope Clark, Chapin, South Carolina

A Stranger's Passion

Thailand

“I was told that the gentleman who designs, builds, and owns these treetop escapes had a career as a professional in the city. When that job came to an end, he became, for whatever reason, a chicken farmer. Apparently, he was also a dreamer and he began building treehouses that he imagined as being in the trees of his rural farm, located in the forest outside of Chiang Rai, Thailand. Each treehouse is unique and each is rented as a bed and breakfast unit. Lying safe and cozy in a leafy bower listening to the song of tropical birds and the gentle gurgle of the stream below... magic.” — Deb Kreutz, California

Child-Size and Carpenter-Built

Pacific Grove, California

“My father was a professional carpenter and he constructed the treehouse in a group of four oak trees which grew closely together in our front yard. He built a sturdy wooden platform about five feet above ground level. Then constructed the walls and roof of the treehouse out of cedar roof shakes which had been left over from the construction of our ‘real’ house. My mother was very creative and she served as art director for the creation of the treehouse, suggesting features such as the diamond-pane windows and the crooked stovepipe on the roof. One Christmas she made a pair of elves out of styrofoam, coat hanger wire, and oilcloth. She positioned the elves on the roof with a string of lights in their hands as if they were decorating the treehouse. The treehouse was small but cozy and a great place to spend an afternoon reading or just dreaming away the time. Not many treehouses look like a fairytale cottage with a crooked stovepipe on the roof. It was built in the mid-1960s and dismantled in 1972 when we moved away.” — Martin Schmidt, Carmel, California

Arboreal Architecture

Bad Harzburg, Germany

“Architectural design turned reality through treehouse hotel project, organized by the land owner and developer. The roof is curved.” — Sonja Peshkoff, Hamburg, Germany

Honeymoon Cottage

Julian, California

“It was created as a ‘honeymoon cottage’ by the owners when they married. At night, coyotes would climb the spiral staircase to the tin roof and dance around, with their nails clicking on the tin. It had a tiny galley kitchen and a wood-burning stove. ‘Something’ would chew on the house at night and I would throw shoes in the direction of the chewing.” — Monica Rix Paxson, Cuernavaca, Mexico

A Dream Come True

Vermont

“My husband, Shane Clifford, designed and built it. He is a teacher, and woodworking is one of his hobbies. He dreamed of a treehouse like this when he was a kid, and wanted to build it for our own three kids. It took two summers to build and required some technical maneuvering with ropes and harnesses. Eventually he'd like to add a spiral staircase winding up the tree to the opening in the railing. I'd like to add a twisty tunnel slide someday! It sleeps six people and each bed has a special animal name and painting adorning it: Heron's Hideaway (folds down out of the wall from a chalkboard station), Rabbit's Rest, Coyote's Cot, Fox's Featherbed, Bear's Bungalow, and The Crow's Nest (tucked up in the peak of the roof).” — Emma Clifford Sharon, Vermont

Oliverio Xicotencatl offers a glimpse at the busiest time of the year at his bakery.

We're working with Chase Sapphire® to tell stories about experiences in places near, far, and-in-between, like this one in Mexico City.

For the millions of Mexicans who celebrate Día de los Muertos across the country and abroad, the sweet breads, rolls and treats placed on altars during the holiday are an important way of honoring their loved ones. This annual celebration, beginning on November 1 and continuing through November 2, is a festive, joyful remembrance of those who have passed. During this time, Mexicans believe the deceased return home, so they leave ofrendas, or offerings, such as lush bouquets of flowers and pastries as gifts. A particular sweet, brightly decorated baked treat known as pan de muerto (bread of the dead) is an essential component of the ritual.

During the festival, people from all over the world descend on on Mexico City for a glimpse–and a taste–of the vibrant celebration. Though Día de los Muertos is celebrated all over the country, Mexico City has hosted a popular parade since 2016 that runs from the Angel of Independence monument to Zócalo in the historic center of Mexico City. Visitors can also experience a slew of cultural events around the city, including a “mega-ofrenda” at the local university and the colorful Festival de las Calaveras.

Travelers should also make a point to visit one of the city’s hundreds of panaderías, or bakeries, to watch as the shops come alive as they boost production of their delectable offerings.

Oliverio Xicotencatl is particularly familiar with the sweet rush of making pan de muerto. As the owner and baker of the popular Panadería y Repostelería Lorá, which he operates from his home in Mexico City’s Los Alamos neighborhood, Día de los Muertos is one of his busiest times of the year.

He talks with Atlas Obscura—who will be taking travelers on their own culinary adventure next year—about how love inspired him to open a business, the importance of bread during Día de los Muertos, and what it takes to prepare pan de muerto.

This interview was originally conducted in Spanish, and translated into English.

What’s the importance of Día de los Muertos for Mexico City families?

Día de los Muertos is an encounter between life and death. For other cultures, death is something that people fear and prepare for. In Mexico, it’s a party. We know that we have to meet death at some point, and instead of fearing it and being scared, we celebrate it. We even mock death, with sugar skulls, and the fact that we dress up for the holiday. It’s a party.

What does bread have to do with the holiday?

The holiday has pre-Hispanic origins. After the Spanish arrived, they incorporated Aztec traditions into their culture. One way this was done was by incorporating a bread into their diet made of wheat, decorated with sugar, and painted red or pink, symbolizing ancient, sacrificial rituals. They served this bread on the Christian holiday of All Saint’s Day, which takes place on November 1.

And that bread is what’s now known as pan de muerto?

Yes. There are many varieties of pan de muerto in Mexico now. The state of Oaxaca has the most. Here, in central Mexico, we have the traditional pan de muerto, which is a round sweet bread designed with what looks like crossbones at the center. There’s also a round portion of the bread that signifies the circle of life and death. The ball at the center represents the skull of the dead, and the four pieces at the sides signify the bones of the dead or the tears that are shed in honoring them.

In other parts of the country, this bread is shaped into skulls, skeletons, or animals. These are all pan de muerto; the only thing that sometimes differs is the dough. Sometimes it’s pan de yema, a type of egg bread with cinnamon. The traditional dough we make here is with flor de azahar, or orange blossom.

How do you make pan de muerto?

Traditionally, the dough is made with eggs, butter, and sugar—no milk or water—and it’s infused with fresh orange blossom or orange blossom water. What we do at Lorá is add fresh orange blossom and a bit of anise to the dough to give it flavor. We also do vegan and gluten-free versions.

To make the best bread, it takes at least one day of preparation. The dough is prepared one night before, left to rest overnight, and then shaped and baked. It’s a long process, but it’s necessary to ensure the best quality.

How does your bakery prepare for the holiday?

We’ve already begun testing the recipe for this year. The season for pan de muerto is from the end of September to the middle of November. This is the time frame that we make the bread. So we’ve already begun refining our recipe. Based on last year’s recipe, we’re trying to see what we can improve or if the measurements need to change. So we’re already starting, and we’ll begin taking orders in mid-September.

We usually have about 25 to 30 orders a week during the season, but when we go to events and markets [like Mexico City’s well-known Festival del Pan de Muerto y la Calaverita, which hosts dozens of artisanal bakeries], we’ll sell between 600 and 1,200 pieces of bread.

On Día de los Muertos, between October 31 and November 2, we sell between 200 and 400 pieces per day.

Do families eat all of the bread, or leave some of it as part of the ofrenda?

Part of it is eaten and part of it is left as an offering. As part of the offering, bread should be left to nourish the dead. So people always leave a few pieces of bread on their altars so the spirits can arrive and eat. They take the essence of the bread with them.

When we were little, we were told that after the dead arrived and ate and drank what they needed, that the bread that remained tasted differently.

What’s your favorite part of working at a bakery this time of year?

The smell of freshly baked bread. When it’s right out of the oven, pan de muerto has such a delicious smell because of the orange and the other spices. When you open the oven, the aroma hits you, and it lingers all night and day.

How did you become a chef?

It sounds trite, but it came out of love. In college, I met someone who loved bread more than any other food in the world, but she was constantly frustrated that breads she tried never met her expectations. So I decided to study baking and started testing different kinds of bread. The bakery is actually named after her. We eventually parted ways, but my love of bread remained constant.

What inspires you, and what's next for Panadería y Repostelería Lorá?

I love the idea of trying new things and hoping someone else falls in love with what they’re tasting. I hope the bakery continues to grow and gains the reputation of being among the best in Mexico.

Internationally recognized chef Leonor Espinosa shares her picks.

We're working with Chase Sapphire® to tell stories about experiences in places near, far, and-in-between, like this one in Colombia.

Early morning in the land of coffee, the local food vendors are arriving at Cartagena’s Mercado de Bazurto off the main Avenida Pedro de Heredia. The daily market is a veritable smorgasbord of fresh produce and meat hailing from all corners of the country.

From the coast, freshly caught, pink-streaked snappers, voluptuous coconuts, and paper-thin granadilla are hallmarks of an Afro-Caribbean-inspired cuisine. From the center of the country—where the high-altitude capital of Bogotá sits nestled in the Andes —plump tomatoes, marbled beef, and fresh vegetables speak to an entirely different culinary identity.

World-renowned chef Leonor Espinosa was born in this city and hopes to one day open a restaurant here. Her Bogotá restaurant, Leo (voted Colombia's best in 2016 by Latin America's 50 Best Restaurants Academy), serves fare that reflects the country's breadth of ingredients. “[Leo] is inspired by our local cuisine and biodiversity, which really isn’t known, even by many Colombians,” Espinosa tells Atlas Obscura. “I wanted to show the world Colombia’s culture and biological diversity [through my food]."

Espinosa's career in cooking had humble origins. Working as a single mother in publicity, she was looking for a way to both make her daughter's meals more interesting and to express herself artistically (she was taking night courses in fine arts). Recognizing her own potential, she embarked on a career pivot—but not without doing her homework first. Before opening Leo in 2007, she worked with chefs, farmers, and biologists from Colombia's five natural regions to research her country's gastronomic history and traditions.

While other Latin American countries have their culinary identifiers—Peru has its ceviche, Mexico its tacos and mole, Argentina its baked empanadas and beef—Colombia is not widely known for having a key ingredient or dish. Espinosa hopes to change that, using local delicacies such as large ants, in her cooking. “Ants come from Santander, a region in the northeast of the country, where [they] have been consumed by natives since pre-colonial times,” she offers as an example.

When asked what dishes travelers visiting Colombia should be sure to try, Espinosa is quick to list traditional fare that is often overlooked by foreigners. Atlas Obscura will give travelers the opportunity to sample Colombia's cuisine on a trip next year. In a country as geographically and culturally diverse as Colombia, food is an excellent entryway for (delicious) discovery.

1. Ajiaco

From the Andean region, Espinosa recommends ajiaco. The word “ajiaco” is said to come from the word “aji,” a type of hot pepper used by the indigenous Caribbean people, the Taino. In Bogotá, ajiaco is a hearty stew traditionally served with chicken, spiced potatoes, and the Galinsoga parviflora herb (known locally as “guasca”). Soups are a mainstay of Colombian cuisine, though they vary greatly from region-to-region.

2. Arroz Atollado

Typical of the Cauca Valley, arroz atollado is a classic Colombian rice dish originating in the Pacific region. Several varieties exist, but Espinosa highlights arroz atollado de cangrejo, a sticky rice prepared with coconut milk and crab. Other varieties combine chicken, pork, duck, chorizo, or other types of meat with vegetables and spices into a medley of robust flavors. Frequently served with fried plantains on the side, this dish is often considered a Colombian-style comfort food.

3. Patarashca

In the classic patarashca dish native to Colombia’s Amazon region, paiche is used to prepare this traditional dish. Weighing an average of 200 to 400 pounds and measuring an average 15 feet in length, the paiche is the largest freshwater fish in the world, and can be found in abundance in Colombia’s Amazon basin.

"Patarashca" refers to the preparation of the fish, and can actually be applied to any species cooked with fresh onions, garlic, olive oil, white wine or other seasonings. The cooked fish is served wrapped in a bijao leaf.

4. Sancocho

Espinosa describes the food of Colombia as “a multicultural and multi-ethnic cuisine,” and sancocho is a perfect example of this. The traditional stew is said to have come to Colombia from the Spanish Canary Islands. Introduced by immigrants, this hearty soup has variations across Ecuador, Colombia, and the Dominican Republic.

In Colombia, sancocho is a stew commonly made with corn on the cob, cassava, plantains, and an array of meats—such as chicken, pork, fish, ox, and hen—that blend together in a savory, free-for-all of flavors. With its generous use of gastronomic odds and ends, sancocho captures the many flavors of its country. Chef Espinosa recommends sancocho de sábalo, a fish stew with tubers, corn, and any number of additional ingredients.

5. Friche

Northern Colombia’s La Guajira desert is home to an indigenous ethnic group known as the Wayuu. With their own distinct traditions, language, and culture, the Wayuu straddle the arid border between Colombia and Venezuela.

A steamed goat stew, friche is common in Wayuu villages because of the availability and ease of breeding goats and the protein the meal offers. Like most traditional fare in Colombia, friche takes what ingredients are accessible and creates a nourishing dish. Friche uses every part of the goat—intestines, organs, meat—and seasons it with garlic, onion, and peppers before serving it with a side of arepas.

Dishes like friche prove that no matter the region or resources, in Colombia, traditional foods almost always tell a story about the people who created them.

Luis Yanez walks us through a day of tortoise traffic and blue-footed boobies.

We're working with Chase Sapphire® to tell stories about experiences in places near, far, and-in-between, like this one in the Galápagos.

On a cloudy day this past July, a group of tourists in Santa Cruz, Galápagos, walked single-file along a path toward a mud pit. They were excited to see some giant tortoises, who like to gather in the muck. They were so excited, in fact, that they barely noticed as one of the massive animals joined their line, huffing impatiently. It turns out tortoises like to take the paths, too.

The group's guide, 30-year-old Luis Yanez, calmly gestured for everybody to move back, and the tortoise lumbered ahead unhindered. The rules of the Galápagos National Park dictate that people should stay a solid six feet from wild animals: pretty easy in the rest of the world, but surprisingly difficult here. “You should respect the two-meter distance,” Yanez mused later, remembering this moment. “But the animals don’t know that.”

As a naturalist guide in one of the world's most beloved ecotourism destinations, Yanez spends his days mediating between people and even wilder creatures. No two days are alike: Once, he spent hours playing monkey-see monkey-do with a pod of sea lion pups. ("I went almost a minute without breathing," he says.) But he agreed to talk us through a "typical" 24 hours.

Atlas Obscura will be taking another group of travelers to the Galápagos next year. Yanez offers a preview of what guests might expect.

Exploring the coast in the morning

Yanez generally starts work at about 8 or 9 a.m., but he likes to get up around 6 to prepare for the day. He'll drink coffee ("we produce really good coffee") and put on his work uniform, safari khaki with an official Galápagos National Park patch. "By the time I get [to work], I'll be really awake," he says. Then the group will take off, ready for its first adventure.

Three different ocean currents converge around the Galapagos Islands: cool, nutrient-rich water from the south mixes with warm water from the north and a cold jet from the west. This combination has given rise to a variety of unique ocean creatures. Nearly one quarter of marine animals in and around the Galápagos can't be found anywhere else in the world.

Yanez likes to take his groups snorkeling or kayaking so they can see this for themselves. The morning is a great time to go out to the Itabaca Channel, a busy spot between the islands of Baltra and Santa Cruz. Beneath the water, black-tipped reef sharks weave between the mangrove roots, and brightly colored pufferfish chug along the bottom. Lucky snorkelers might even see a blue-footed booby take a plunge. "They're one of the most beautiful animals that we have," Yanez says. "So aerodynamic—they can dive up to [200 feet]."

Above the surface, water taxis bring people between the islands. Many are converted fishing boats, signs of the archipelago's changing economy, which is now heavily focused around ecotourism. In Yanez's generation, "we are really conscious about everything," he says. "About recycling, about being respectful of nature." Responsible ecotourism is a large part of that, and every tour group that enters the Galápagos must be led by a local guide.

Hiking in the highlands in the afternoon

Over lunch—generally soup followed by local fish and produce—Yanez gives a short talk about what the group saw in the morning. Naturalist guides in the Galápagos have both broad and deep knowledge: before they can even go to training school, applicants must study for and pass a three-hour entrance exam. After that, they undergo a rigorous five-month course on subjects ranging from physics to biology to history and culture. Only permanent residents of the Galápagos—of which there are about 25,000—are allowed to apply.

Yanez himself is a third-generation Galapaganean. When he was growing up, he says, he thought guides were "like superheroes." When the opportunity arose to become one, he jumped on it. (The job requires constant learning: When we spoke, Yanez was in Montreal, finishing up an intensive French language course.)

In the afternoon, he might take his group hiking in the highlands to see the giant tortoises, some of the islands' most impressive creatures. "You can see them really soak in the sun," he says. "It's cool to just hang around them." Galápagos tortoises often live for more than a century, and they spend most of their time napping: good creatures to have around when you're on vacation.

If the tour group has good energy, they might see one of the archipelago's less well-known, but equally fascinating denizens. On a recent visit to the highlands, Yanez's group nearly tripped over a Galapagos short-eared owl, known for its unusual hunting behavior. Sometimes, he says, they even see a humpback whale jump.

Bonding and bird-watching in the evening

Because the Galápagos has such a variety of creatures and ecosystems, groups often travel from place to place. Transport time is a great opportunity for people to get to know each other. "The Galápagos is a beautiful place to meet people," Yanez says, recalling some of the lessons he has learned from his companions. "Everybody on the tour has something important to share."

In the evening, the group may switch locations to Floreana: a hill-topped island that once served as a stopping point for pirates. It's now home to a small community of 150 people, who get their electricity from solar panels and farm much of their own food. Animals are attracted to the island's freshwater spring, a rare resource in the Galápagos.

After a hike around the island's abandoned caves, Yanez may take his group to a pond, where magnificent frigatebirds—which spend most of their time at sea—dive to rinse the salt off of their feathers. "Going to Floreana is like going back in time," he says. "In this global world, you want everything and you want it now. [But] you don't need that much to be happy."

After dinner, Yanez heads home. He might read a scientific article, to make sure he's ready for the next day's activity, and then he'll go to sleep. The group may be living that slower island life—but he's still going to get up at 6.