Atlas Obscura

At some point in the mid-Cretaceous period, a cartilaginous fish—an early ancestor of a ray or shark—was having a really bad day. For some unknown reason, it became beached on shore, unable to get back in the water. In addition to that, parasitic tapeworms were feeding in its intestines, meaning it had likely been experiencing discomfort even before it washed up on land.

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Eclipse chasers hope for clear skies, so here’s hoping for a good forecast for Monday, April 8. But if you are the kind of person who likes to plan way ahead, consider coming to the Mountain West in 21 years and four months. Colorado is known for more than 300 days of sunshine, and the August 2045 total eclipse crosses most of the state.

If you find yourself in France on April 1, don’t be surprised if something seems fishy. Maybe someone gives you a chocolate or a pastry in the shape of a cod? Perhaps you find a paper haddock stuck to your back, and then everyone erupts into laughter and starts pointing and shouting “poisson d’avril”? Don’t be alarmed, you’ve simply immersed yourself in the centuries-long French tradition of April Fool’s Day, known as poisson d’avril or “April Fish.”

Let’s be blunt. Astrology has no basis in scientific fact. The motions of the planets and moons don’t meaningfully bolster or perturb your life. But that doesn’t mean that the planets don’t affect one another—and lately, scientists have come to suspect that Mars may be literally stirring tides within the depths of our world.

One night, when Nadia Abuisnaineh was in 11th grade, Mormon missionaries came knocking. After Abuisnaineh’s sister politely declined their proselytizing, the pair turned to leave—but not before asking, “Do you know that there are auroras outside?” Immediately running out the door of their Brooklyn Park, Minnesota, home, Abuisnaineh witnessed the northern lights for the first time.

This story was originally published on The Conversation . It appears here under a Creative Commons license.

THIS ARTICLE IS ADAPTED FROM THE MARCH 30, 2024, EDITION OF GASTRO OBSCURA’S FAVORITE THINGS NEWSLETTER. YOU CAN SIGN UP HERE.

Atlas Obscura’s weekly crossword comes to us from Natan Last, a writer who also helps develop policy and digital products for refugees and asylum seekers. His work can be found in The Atlantic, Los Angeles Review of Books, The New Yorker, and other publications, and he’s currently working on a nonfiction book about crosswords.

Even celestial events need a backing track—and the April 8 total solar eclipse is no different. Whether you’re road-tripping down to Hot Springs, Arkansas for Atlas Obscura’s Ecliptic Festival or flying over to Cleveland, Ohio, you’ll undoubtedly need some tunes to get you in the mood.

Full disclosure: My editor asked me to answer this question—“What’s the fastest language in the world?”—because I like writing about both language and strange, global superlatives. Pretty quickly I realized that there’s a basic problem (albeit a fun one!) with the question: We first have to determine what we even mean by “fastest.” Does that mean the number of words or syllables spoken in a set amount of time? The amount of information conveyed? The language with the fewest words or syllables to convey a set statement? The language that can be understood when cranked up to the highest speed? What even is English jacked up to 4x? 10x?

For English-speakers, Romanian is easier to learn than German. And you’ll be speaking Swahili sooner than Polish.

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In 1971, Glen McLaughlin came across a strange map in a London map shop. Americæ Nova Descriptio, produced by Anne Seile (1) in 1663, showed California as a big, carrot-shaped island, floating off the coast of North America.

At first glance, the cartonnage in Macclesfield Museum’s display of Egyptian antiquities seems like any other mummy-holding case. The cartonnage material is made of two or three thin layers of bandages applied on top of one another, with ancient glue holding them together. It’s “the Egyptian equivalent of papier mâché,” according to Ken Griffin, Egyptologist and Curator of the Egypt Centre at Swansea University. Its smooth surface, created by a thin layer of plaster, is painted with images to guide the deceased to the afterlife in shades of salmon pink, blue, and olive green. It once held mummified remains and was placed inside a sarcophagus.

Many years ago, Loren Pankratz got a call from a rare book dealer. The man was at the end of his career, he told Pankratz, and had a special book to sell. It had been passed down from his grandfather, and perhaps only three other copies existed in the world. He thought Pankratz, a former professor of psychology in Oregon who collects books on cons and frauds, might be interested. Pankratz bought the book, which was in German, and it sat on his shelf for years, unread. Then, years later, he met a translator who helped him understand the gem he was holding onto.

The landscape around Route A29, which connects Palermo and Mazara del Vallo, is a travel-brochure version of rural Sicily: rolling hills dotted with barley fields, olive groves, and vineyards, and the occasional cluster of ancient ruins. Exit at Salemi, however, and follow the signs for Gibellina Nuova, and a surprise awaits. Like a postmodern version of Roman era city gates, there stands a 70-foot-tall steel sculpture of a five-pointed star by Sicilian sculptor Pietro Consagra. Porta del Belice (Door of Belice) or the Star of Belice marks the entrance to Gibellina Nuova, a town that hosts one of the largest collections of contemporary art in the world and a reputation as a failed art utopia or a surreal, postmodern ghost town.

THIS ARTICLE IS ADAPTED FROM THE FEBRUARY 17, 2024, EDITION OF GASTRO OBSCURA’S FAVORITE THINGS NEWSLETTER. YOU CAN SIGN UP HERE .

“It’s normal now for people to say, ‘I can eat a steak, but the cow’s brain? That’s the most extreme thing I’ve ever heard,” says health coach and offal cookbook author Ashleigh VanHouten. “Throughout history, this was never a question. It wasn’t like, ‘In what culture was the brain eaten?’ Everybody ate all of it.”

Just off the Thames in Southwest London, a prehistoric type of South African palm tree has been living for almost two centuries. Growing an inch a year, today it’s the height of a double-decker bus and slopes drunkenly 16 feet to the side. It needs four metal crutches to keep from falling over altogether—for an expat at least 249 years old, not bad.