You aren’t going to want to take a bat to Roberto Benavidez’s piñatas, and he’ll never tell you what’s inside of them.

His paper-fringed sculptures, some of which will be on display in February 2019 at the Riverside Art Museum in Riverside, California, take months to finish and are inspired by animals in medieval imagery.

Benavidez’s original inspiration for his medieval piñata project came from The Garden of Earthly Delights, a modern name given to a Hieronymus Bosch oil painting containing a phantasmagoria of naked people and mythical animals. When Benavidez first saw the painting, he was drawn to the strange creatures. He wanted to bring the flat images to life.

“I could spend probably my whole life making everything I would like to from that painting. There's so much detail,” he says. Benavidez’s beasts are at once ominous and friendly, hearkening to something old while simultaneously feeling fresh and new.

This mix can partly be attributed to his medium, rarely seen in the world of fine arts. “When I decided to pursue the piñata technique it really was to pursue a medium that was limitless to me,” says Benavidez. “There was no financial limitation. It's just like glue and paper. You can really make anything with paper.”

Benavidez’s approach combines traditional piñata elements and motifs to create his own kind of hybrids. His latest project, “Illuminated Piñata,” pulls animal characters from the Luttrel Psalter, a richly painted 14th-century manuscript full of strange beings.

Piñata-makers often struggle with copyright privileges, notes Benavidez, so working with 500-year-old texts helps him draw on inspiration without getting sued. “There are so many images out there you can use that are interesting,” he says. “Why not expand beyond these images that are protected by intellectual property and go a little further back and celebrate what's been done in the past?”

Like most medieval art, the texts that inspire Benavidez’s work have religious themes, and piñatas also have a religious history in North America. Some believe Spanish missionaries used piñatas to convert indigenous people to Christianity. “I kind of like that there is that slight parallel,” says Benavidez, “but that's not what drove it.” For him, it was all about the creatures, and their “soft and hard qualities.”

Benavidez says he has received some pushback against the piñatas, and some of his friends have asked him why he won’t just call them “paper sculptures” instead. “There was incredible resistance to just the word ‘piñata’ being used in a higher art form,” he says. “I love presenting them as piñatas because I love the tension that it brings.”

Growing up in South Texas, Benavidez saw many piñatas at parties. He likes to think that he is highlighting an art form that hasn’t been highlighted before in this way. He identifies as mixed-race, a fusion of histories and cultures, and he thinks his piñatas are the same way. “The piñata’s history is very multicultural,” he says. “In my mind, it’s a reflection of me.”

The largest of his pieces are over six feet tall. Thousands of paper strips are hand-cut and layered to achieve the different hues and textures. He used to make the piñatas in the traditional way, with wheat paste and newspaper, but he has since shifted to more durable acid-free papers.

Most of the pieces are designed to hang from the ceiling, and Benavidez has to place the ring in the exact right spot early in the construction process to achieve the right equilibrium.

In Benavidez’s work, these creatures balance between the curious world of medieval animal imagery and the exuberance of a South Texas birthday party, between tradition and something completely new. “I just want to spark people's’ imagination of what’s possible,” he says.

New Year’s Day is approaching, and no matter how you celebrate, chances are good that a lot of you will be staring down a January 1 hangover. There are a mind-boggling number of wondrous hangover "cures" out there, from nearly every global cuisine—and we want to hear about your favorites.

South Korea has a grapefruit "hang-in-there" ice cream bar that claims to ease the pain. There’s Japanese umeboshi, a pickled, salty ume fruit that's thought to be a good remedy for terrible mornings. In Lima, eating the Churo snail is said to slow the waves of nausea that can accompany hangovers. And there's always the ol' Prairie Oyster Cocktail, which is pretty much just swallowing an uncooked egg. (Editor's note: water, rest, and time are the only true cures for a hangover, and we recommend taking any food or beverage that claims to be a "cure" with a hearty dose of skepticism).

Fill out the form below and tell us about the go-to hangover "cures" you've encountered on your journeys, how you discovered your favorite remedy, and most importantly, do you think it works? Give your morning-after anxieties a rest, and tell us what you plan to do about them!

Between April and September, the farmers are mostly alone on Pebble Island.

Sort of. They have their cattle—a herd 120-head strong—plus a few horses and several thousand sheep, but they don’t have many human neighbors to talk with on the island, which is one of more than 700 little landmasses in the Falklands archipelago. Military troops sometimes stop by for training, and a supply ship docks every few weeks, but for the most part, things are quiet and a bit cold. It all picks up a bit in October, when farming season gets cracking. That's when a slow trickle of visitors arrive to stay in little cottages or a lodge, where they can look out at the rolling, grassy landscape, and the choppy water and rocky, white-sand shore, where sea lions loaf and five species of penguins wobble.

It’s a pretty place to stay for a weekend or a week—and someone will soon be able to stay on the island as long as they like, because it’s up for sale. (Penguins included.)

A 45-minute flight from Stanley, the Falkland Islands' capital, Pebble Island is certainly private, but it's not the stuff of a billionaire’s turquoise, tropical dreams—you’d be wind-whipped and shivering in a bikini. But the landscape, roughly 19 miles long and four miles wide, is home to scores of animals and a complicated military legacy. On the west side of the island sit the mangled metal remains of an Argentine military aircraft shot down by the British during the 1982 Falklands War. Stark, simple crosses memorialize the crew of the HMS Coventry, which was bombed and sunk nearby during the conflict. (Several of the crew members perished at sea, though many others were rescued by another ship.)

This is the first time the island has been for sale in nearly 150 years. John Markham Dean—lured to the Falklands by the idea of a fish-curing business, the BBC reported—bought this island and a few others in 1869 and set up a farm. The Deans haven’t lived on the island in decades, but lease the land to farmers. Now, Dean’s descendants are selling the island privately, and they'll be taking bids through January 2019. “We are open to offers and there is no guide price,” says Claire Harris, whose mother and uncle are Deans. The winning bid is sure to clock in far above the £400 that John Markham Dean paid at the time. Whoever buys it, Harris says, “we would want farming, tourism, and conservation to continue.”

How many of your most treasured possessions are built to last? Would they make it through a fire? How about a flood?

There are a few rare items in history that have proved capable of making it through the incredible trials the world has thrown at them. The fact that the circumstances of their survival are often tragic only makes their seeming indestructibility more poignant. Whether they’ve withstood the trials of time, trouble, or both, the artifacts below are striking reminders of the lives their owners lived, as well as of the incredible craftsmanship and engineering that built them.

The Titanic Violin

If you’ve seen Titanic, you know the story of Wallace Hartley, the violinist who famously urged the band to keep playing even as the ship began to sink. While many might imagine this story to involve a bit of artistic license on the part of the screenwriters, it’s actually fairly accurate to the historical record. And we still have the violin to prove it. Amazingly, Hartley’s actual instrument is one of the most notable items to survive the disaster with little damage, both because of the uncanny strength of the glue holding its pieces together as well as the leather valise that was able to protect it from many of the ravages of the undersea. The violin was sold at auction for a whopping $1.7 million in 2013.

Mary Latrobe’s Tea Box

These days, if you ask an elementary school kid to tell you about the War of 1812, the most you’ll probably get out of them is that it…happened in 1812. But although it’s a war that has receded in many ways into the dusty annals of history, it’s also one that saw some serious damage–for instance, the total destruction of the White House after British soldiers marched into Washington in 1814 and burned the place to the ground. The destruction wrought by the fire was severe enough that we now have very little evidence as to what the interior of the original first abode may have looked like, but one rare clue lies in a Chinese lacquer tea box. The box, which was a gift from First Lady Dolley Madison to her friend Mary Latrobe, was lined with a swatch of the same French wallpaper that hung inside the residence, making it one of the few surviving artifacts from the historic building.

Ilan Ramon’s Diary

The crash of the Columbia space shuttle in 2003 stunned the world. While all seven crew members aboard the shuttle were tragically killed when it disintegrated upon re-entry into the Earth’s atmosphere, one unlikely item managed to make it through both the explosion and a 37-mile free fall to Palestine, Texas. This item was the diary of Ilan Ramon, an Israeli-born fighter pilot and NASA astronaut who was a payload specialist aboard the spacecraft. While the curator at the Israeli Museum in Jerusalem, where a portion of the diary is on display, describes the item’s survival as “almost a miracle,” others have chalked its unlikely survival up to a combination of aerodynamics, the book’s location in the cabin, and the slow process by which the shuttle disintegrated. Either way, its serves as a moving reminder of an extraordinary life.

The Lewis Chessmen

That dusty old Scrabble set in your closet may be 20 years old at this point, but what are the odds of it hanging on for another 900-plus years? We’re guessing pretty low. The Vikings, on the other hand, crafted their games with an eye toward longevity—at least in the case of the Lewis Chessmen, a collection of chess pieces carved from walrus ivory that are believed to have originated in Trondheim, Norway, in the 12th century. The iconic, and slightly silly-looking figures were discovered on the island of Lewis, in the Outer Hebrides, and are now on display in the British Museum and the National Museum of Scotland. How did they manage to survive for over 900 years?

The Ocean of Lost Toys

In 1997, a ship containing more than 5 million Legos was struck by a freak wave, causing it to accidentally drop its precious plastic cargo off the coast of Land’s End at the westernmost edge of England. Now, more than twenty years later, the nearby beaches of Devon and Cornwall are still bejeweled with thousands of the distinctive, yellow-headed figures and their related doodads, all of which are avidly collected by visitors (not to mention cursed by local conservationists). If you plan to go beach-combing, make sure to wear shoes. Indestructibility comes with a price: those things hurt.

Most items manufactured today won't still be ticking when the archaeologists of the future dig them up. That's why Citizen Promaster is the wristwatch of choice for people who brave the elements every day in their careers. View the video below to see how a forger harnesses earth, wind, fire, and water to create a blade–all while wearing a Citizen Promaster Tough watch.

Since 2004, Barbados, the self-proclaimed "Land of the Flying Fish," has been at loggerheads with Trinidad and Tobago over maritime boundaries. Tensions arose regarding fishermen's rights to catch the species that makes up half of Barbados's national dish: cou cou and flying fish. The four-winged flying fish, which is featured on Barbados's coins, stamps, menus, and tourism logos, has migrated 125 miles south. They now reside in waters legally belonging to Tobago.

Bajan fishermen pursued the creatures, which remain in-demand, despite being geographically out of bounds, into Tobagonian territory. But then, two ship captains were arrested, catches were seized, and a diplomatic spat ensued. The countries took their argument to the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea, who ruled in 2006 by dividing the waters and telling both countries to preserve fish stocks for the future. In the meantime, Bajans maintained their supply by begrudgingly buying flying fish off Tobago's fleet.

The Bajan dish at the center of the controversy features steamed flying fish paired with a firm-cooked cornmeal-and-okra cake called cou cou. Bajans invented the "cou cou stick," a specific, smooth, oblong wooden spoon, just to manipulate the mixture into ideal form and consistency. Cooks top off the finished plate with an herbed, buttery sauce of tomatoes, onion, and lime juice. Restaurants across the island continue to serve the traditional meal, which has become increasingly costly as local flying fish populations dwindled away. Fear not, the whimsical critters aren't endangered, they've just moved south.

The Philippines is home to one of the longest Christmas seasons in the world, stretching from the beginning of September until the end of December. Months of festivities are sustained by a wide array of delicious, often colorful treats, and among the most beloved is puto bumbong, a purple steamed rice sweet. Stand outside any Catholic church during Simbáng Gabi, the nine-day period of masses leading up to Christmas Eve, and you’re likely spot vendors serving up the brightly-colored, steaming snacks to churchgoers who stop at their stalls.

Puto bumbong traditionally gets its hue from a variety of sticky rice known as pirurutong, which is naturally a dark brownish purple. Preparing pirurutong typically takes several days, beginning with soaking a mixture of pirurutong and white sticky rice in salt water overnight. The mixture is then ground (either with a grinding stone or food processor) and hung to dry. Once it's reached a moist texture, the rice concoction is poured into bumbong ng kawayan, or bamboo tubes, and steamed until it becomes a deep purple. After removing the rice from the tubes, vendors set several cylinders atop a banana leaf, generously slather them with butter or margarine, and top with a mix of freshly-grated coconut and muscovado sugar. Diners are encouraged to dig in immediately, as puto bumbong is a snack best eaten hot.

Though you can still find plenty of traditional puto bumbong, many vendors now use ube (purple yam) powder since pirurutong is a bit harder to come by. Some, hoping to really pump up the hue, add a drop of violet food coloring to the mix, though this is typically frowned upon. No matter the source of the purple, the dazzling dish is sure to spread holiday cheer to all of those able to get their hands on the sticky Christmastime staple.

Michelle Ly has coached countless Americans through their first sips of baijiu. Even though it's the world's most popular spirit, few of her non-Chinese customers have tried it, and even in Portland, Oregon, where having adventurous tastebuds is a lifestyle, its funkiness and potency can provoke puzzlement and polarized reactions.

The spirit can be equally baffling to Americans in the industry. One time when Ly explained the production process to another distiller, he stopped her in confusion, thinking she had left out a step. Most alcohols start with malting: grains left in water until their starches convert into sugars, with fermentation as step two. But as baijiu makers know, making this over-100 proof liquor means combining the two steps: a process called parallel fermentation, for, some would say, a liquor without parallel.

Distillers make more than 10 billion liters per year of baijiu, which translates to “white alcohol.” But most of it is consumed in its home country of China. Often fiercely strong and flavorful, famed baijiu include Kinmen Kaoliang and the tremendously popular Moutai. The latter is powerful enough that on President Richard Nixon’s visit to China in 1972, secretary of state Alexander Haig scrambled to warn him against drinking too much. (Nixon disregarded this advice.)

Despite the ancient tipple’s popularity and the size of the Chinese diaspora, baijiu makers outside China are relatively rare. In the United States, there is only one. At Vinn Distillery, in Wilsonville, Oregon, five siblings make the only U.S. baijiu in an unexpected place: a pole barn behind the family home. Ly is one of the five siblings who own Vinn Distillery. Originally set up by her retired father in their backyard, the distillery makes whiskey, vodka, fruit liquors, and America’s first and only baijiu. While companies often import baijiu into the United States, she says, none make it from scratch.

Unlike many home brewers, Ly’s father, Phan Ly, didn’t have to trawl Google for information—his family had been brewing baijiu for centuries. He grew up in Vietnam, part of an ethnically Chinese community where many people made their own liquor (after all, says Ly, there were no liquor stores). But in 1978, when the five siblings were still young, the entire family was deported for being Chinese, the result of tensions leading up to the Sino-Vietnamese War, which broke out the next year.

Their uprooting sent them on a long road to Oregon. They first settled in a small farming village in China. After the local villagers plied Phan with baijiu, though, he revealed he had sailing skills from working aboard ships in Vietnam’s Ha Long Bay. Wanting to escape Communist China, villagers pooled their money to purchase a fishing boat. The destination was Hong Kong and a new life. The arduous journey took a month and a half. “Our family’s ticket onto that ship,” Ly says, was Phan’s sailing ability. From there, a church in Oregon sponsored the Ly family, and they settled in the United States.

But when they arrived, there was no baijiu. “We couldn’t get our hands on it," says Ly. Phan wanted to sell drinks of baijiu at the family restaurant, but the entire family missed it. "[It's essential for] honoring our ancestors, welcoming the new year," says Ly. "Any kind of holiday celebration, baijiu is toasted."

After Phan retired from the family restaurant business, he told his children he planned to start a distillery in the pole barn. “We thought it was just going to be his retirement project," says Ly. "We thought there was no way he could actually get this going." Two years later, he surprised his children by telling them he had completed the paperwork to become a licensed distillery. “Let’s sell the restaurant and start selling baijiu,” Ly remembers her father saying. Originally, Phan wanted to name the distillery “Five Siblings,” for his children, but they convinced him to go for the “Vinn” moniker instead: the shared middle name of the siblings, all of whom work for the distillery in some way.

The family patriarch passed away in 2012, but every summer, the siblings and their mother still make qu, the key substance for making baijiu, from rice flour, herbs, and spices. Like a sourdough starter, the qu is filled with yeast and enzymes. Baijiu makers form qu bricks or balls, and add it to cooked grains, such as sorghum or rice, to kickstart fermentation. Vinn's "little qu," Ly says, is more common in southern China, where more rice is grown, than in the north, where wheat-based, brick-like “big qu” is dominant. After powdering the qu, the Lys add it to cooked, cool brown rice, which they then ferment in vats for six months. After distilling it in pot stills, they age it for a year or more, resulting in Vinn Distillery’s unfiltered, rice-scented liquor. According to Ly, the rice fragrance is a feature of southern Chinese baijiu: other categories include honey fragrance, light fragrance, and sauce (that is, soy sauce) fragrance.

According to baijiu researchers, some of the best Chinese baijiu is made in temperate zones. Ly is unsure how much the cool Pacific Northwest climate influences their baijiu. But much of the taste, she says, comes from the microbial makeup of the qu, which develops from the local air, water, and ingredients. The result? One-of-a-kind Oregon baijiu.

While the Ly family’s liquors began with baijiu, they’ve branched out with rice-derived vodkas, fruit liquors, and even an accidental whiskey. One of Ly’s sisters put some baijiu in barrels and left it there for a year. “Does it qualify as a whiskey?” she and her siblings wondered. After doing some research, they decided it did. (It's made with a grain and fermented in barrels.) Now, they sell it as "America's first rice whiskey."

While baijiu is increasingly available worldwide, its potency and funky, fiery flavor can shock the uninitiated. Their standard baijiu, Ly notes, is 40% abv: intentionally low for a baijiu, so as to meet the expectations of Americans used to relatively weaker whiskeys, vodkas, and rums. But as a posthumous tribute to their father, the Lys also sell his “go-to” baijiu, a proudly potent 106-proof spirit.

At the Vinn Distillery tasting room in Portland, the company educates newcomers about baijiu. Some sippers have experienced cut-rate baijiu on trips to China, while others simply have no basis for comparison. Baijiu expert Derek Sandhaus lovingly describes Vinn's flagship baijiu's taste as nutty and delicate, even lemony. Some of Ly's first-time customers, in contrast, are taken aback or have “negative" reactions on the first sip, says Ly. But she adds that one of the joys of baijiu is that the flavor profile changes as you savor it, intriguing people into going back for more.

The small village of Hobart in New York's Catskill mountains has been drawing bibliophiles from near and far with its delightful claim to fame: no less than five independent bookstores, all within walking distance of each other.

Since it was settled in the 1780s, Hobart had been a small farming village with local farms providing most jobs in the area. But over time these dwindled, and by the early 2000s, most buildings on Main Street were vacant. A local entrepreneur, Don Dales, decided to buy up the empty buildings and lease them to aspiring booksellers. 

At the moment there are five independent bookstores along Hobart’s Main Street. There’s Adams’ Antiquarian Bookstore, which specializes in antique pieces of literature, but has a wide variety of other genres throughout the shop’s three floors. In addition to the impressive collection of leather-bound volumes, you can have a chat with the good Dr. Adams or try one of Mrs. Adams’ gingersnap cookies.

Across the street, you’ll find Creative Corner Books and Butternut Valley Books. Creative Corner Books is the perfect shop for any DIY-er. Whether you are looking for a 1930s cookbook or a home improvement guide, you’ll probably find it here.

Butternut Valley Books is one of those charming shops with no organizational system whatsoever. If you decide to visit you’ll have to carefully squeeze between stacks of books and shelves. There’s no telling just what you’ll find. The store holds an interesting mixture of antique, obscure, and unexpected novels. 

Farther down the road you’ll find Liberty Rock Books. This is definitely the most well-organized shop in the village and has a wide variety of books ranging from 19th-century poetry collections to 1960s psychology papers. In the back of the building, you’ll find a reading area with good views of the east branch of the Delaware River.

Past Liberty Rock and adjoined with the post office is Blenheim Hill Books. Visitors will usually receive an enthusiastic greeting from the shop’s dog, Greta. Inside you’ll find a sizable collection of books on a variety of topics, with excellent selections of vintage children’s books and women’s studies books.

It was 1973 when a holy man by the name of Mohamed Gorgui Seyni Guèye envisaged a grand mosque on the beach. He took his dream as a prophecy and a commandment from the Lord.

The sacred site was indeed built on a beach in the ancient fishing village of Ouakam outside Dakar, completed in 1997. It's known as the Mosque of the Divinity (Mosquée de la Divinité).

Designed by the architect Cheikh Ngom, the Divinity Mosque is a sublime religious structure characterized by two towering minarets offering unparalleled views of the Atlantic Ocean. Since the mosque was unveiled, it’s become both an important Muslim pilgrimage site and a breathtaking point of interest for curious travelers.

Visitors consider the mosque a must-see in the Senegalese capital of Dakar, not only for its sheer size and the panorama it offers, but as a unique architectural monument that melds elements of modernism with traditional Islamic design. From the top of the surrounding cliffs, the view looking out over the mosque backdropped by the ocean is picture-perfect.

Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, published in 1843, swiftly entered the holiday-season canon—the sort of story readers return to year after year, wherever there’s a crackling fire, a dusting of snow, and a mug of eggnog at hand. But when Dickens gave public readings from the text, the story changed a bit from one performance to another. His marked-up stage copy of the book, on view at the New York Public Library, gives readers a peek into the writer’s mind as he reworked his spirited prose.

Dickens intuited that his devoted public would get a kick out of listening to him read from the already beloved text, and he spent decades taking his A Christmas Carol act on the road. He devised different voices and styles for each character, so Tiny Tim sounded nothing like Ebenezer Scrooge. Writers of the period commonly traveled to give lectures, but “reading from your own work was new, and his degree of literary celebrity took it into the stratosphere,” says Carolyn Vega, curator at the Berg Collection at the New York Public Library.

People turned out in droves. “Enthusiastic crowds have filled the halls to the roof each night, and hundreds have been turned away,” Dickens wrote to his friend John Forster about readings in Dublin in March 1867. Attendees attempted to pack in even tighter, Dickens continued, asking for “chairs anywhere, in doorways, on my platform, in any sort of hole or corner.”

The author received a warm reception in America, too. When he landed in Boston for a series of readings in fall 1867, the city was "in exstacies," with 8,000 tickets sold, the Brooklyn Daily Eagle reported. The Eagle predicted that, when Dickens made his way to New York City, "the great novelist will meet with a no less cordial but more sensible reception," and would find the venues "none too large for the audiences his readings will draw." Dickens spent that December “basically ping-ponging between New York and Boston,” Vega says. He’d do a few readings in one city, hop into the coach bound for the other, and then repeat the whole routine. There was such fever for admission to Dickens's readings at New York City's Steinway Hall, the Buffalo Commercial reported, that "speculators have got hold of the tickets and are endeavoring to sell them at extravagant prices." Forged tickets were thought to be floating around, too.

Dickens probably could have recited the whole story from memory, but the book itself was part of the appeal. “Even before he started the series of readings, he knew [the book] inside and out,” Vega says. “By the end of doing it for 20 years, he knew exactly what hooks the audience, what worked and what didn’t, but always went up with the book in hand. The idea of Dickens reading to you was the performance you were paying for.” He sat or stood behind a tall desk, with the volume always at hand—even if it was much too far from his face for the text to be easily decipherable.

The book was a prop and a prompt, and Dickens toted it with him and annotated it relentlessly. Over the years, Dickens wanted to fit stories beyond his Christmas fable into a single performance, which meant that each needed to shrink in order to fit into the allotted time. Dickens took a regular, off-the-shelf copy of A Christmas Carol, had the binding removed, and then set the pages onto larger ones, whose margins had plenty of room for notes.

Some of these are standard-issue edits, such as struck-through sentences or entire canceled paragraphs. (The text got leaner over time, Vega says.) Other notes evoke reminders like stage directions, such as a note about conjuring a specific tone. Dickens reminded himself to convey a sense of "mystery" just before Scrooge spots Marley's ghostly face in his door knocker, and to sound "cheerful" when channeling warm tidings from the humbug's nephew. In edits to another text he performed, Vega says, “he reminds himself that the tone should be ‘very pathetic,’ circled and written large.”

The edits also offer a window into Dickens’s speedy working style. The author often worked serially, submitting stories under deadline pressure, and “you get a sense of that energy when you look at the prompt copy,” Vega says. Some pages have blots and smudges, indicating that he was working fast, loose, and frantically, without waiting for the ink to dry. Until January 7, 2019, library visitors can take a look at Dickens's copy, and see that a writer's work is never really done.

Built in Greece in the 13th century by the Franks, this site was once an important observation place. Its strategic location made it a prime spot for protecting the bay. As such, it endured centuries of attacks and sieges.

The Venetians gained control of the fortress in the 15th century, but it wasn’t long before the Ottomans attempted to stake their claim to the castle. The fortress passed back and forth between Venetian and Ottoman hands before the Ottoman forces eventually proved successful.

However, after the construction of Pylos castle nearby, Navarino lost its significance and gradually began degenerating. It is now commonly referred to by the locals as Paleokastro, meaning “the old fortress.” Today, only fragments of it still stand.

Though the castle is a mere skeleton of its former glory, it’s still worth visiting. From the top of the cliffs it crowns, you will have stunning panoramic views of Voidokilia Beach, the lagoon, coastline, and nearby islands. You’ll also find Nestor’s Cave halfway up the rock formation. Although the cave is not too deep, it is still worth taking a flashlight and exploring.

Stockholm is not a flat city, so much so that you can easily get lost just trying to go to the next street, looking for hidden staircases and steep ramps.

Some attempts have been made to remedy this in the busier parts of town, the most iconic example being the Katarina Elevator, or Katarinahissen, a gigantic metal construction towering over passersby at Slussen, providing a much-appreciated shortcut between Katarinavägen and Mosebacke Torg.

The original lift construction dates from 1881, at which time it was an extremely modern way of traveling. Initially, it was powered by a giant steam engine, but was upgraded to an electric motor in 1915. Sporting the modernistic name "Elevatorn," the elevator drew many curious visitors. Roughly 1,500 people a day came to see the mechanical wonder during the first month of its opening, making the city a lot of money since a trip up or down cost 5 öre (about 2 dollars). 

The bridge to the elevator was seen as extremely valuable advertising real estate from the beginning, sporting ads for furs and other commodities. It was also the original location of the iconic animated Stomatol Toothpaste sign before it was moved to its current location. 

Over the years, the Katarinahissen construction became too weak to be used safely and eventually was demolished and replaced by the current lift, which resumed its operation in much the same way as before.

Many of the best holiday decorations are ultimately more like artifacts, cheerful objects that are passed down within families and accumulate sentimental attachment with each passing year. Recently we asked Atlas Obscura readers to show us their personal holiday heirlooms, and the spirit of the season was in full force in every response.

You sent us stories about all sorts of magical trinkets and heart-warming ornaments, each one doing its part to help make your holidays special. Among them were Christmas lanterns, a hanukiah made from welded coins, and a... Sasquatch. For those still looking to get into the spirit of the season, you'll find some of our favorite submissions below. Oh, and happy holidays!

Christmas Lantern Ornament

“This lantern ornament once lit up. It belonged to my mother's grandmother, and has survived multiple moves, for over a century. It joins all the other glass ornaments I inherited from the elderly women in my Detroit neighborhood growing up, from all over Europe. It is history on a Christmas tree with a Shiva on top.” — Joan Winslow, Salt Lake City, Utah

Heirloom Hanukiah

“The hanukiah is made of old silver coins from various countries, some going back to the 18th century. The story is that in the village in Poland, near the Ukraine border, members of the congregation supported the rabbi by giving him money. Sometimes the rabbi would bless a few coins and return them to the donor. Since blessed coins were special, they were saved. Eventually, looking for a way to display them, the crafting of the hanukiah was commissioned. In the 1950s, when oil was replaced by candles, the hanukiah started to come apart. We think the flames were too hot. Whenever a repair was attempted, the solder would melt and it would fall apart even more because the silver conducted the heat. In the 1990s we found a jeweler who knew the ‘cold solder’ method required to repair it. By then, some of the coins had been lost. The jeweler used his own coin for a foot, so that the hanukiah would stand. The coin is from Uruguay.” — Nitza, Connecticut

Grandfather’s Crèche

“My grandfather made a crèche, which our German-American family always called a 'crib,' in 1935. He made it from discarded orange crates (roof and floor) and rods used to ship tires, and added electric bulbs to illuminate it. My mother was in kindergarten at the time and was so thrilled that she went to school and told all the nuns, who, of course, roped my grandfather into making one for the convent. She treasured it for her whole life in Kansas City, Missouri, and before she died, she passed it on to me. We decorate at the beginning of Advent, but we only put the figure of Jesus in on Christmas Eve. I have a picture of me putting the figure in every year throughout my childhood, and have carried on the tradition with my daughter.” — Valerie Gotaskie, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Dad’s Christmas Village

“Before my dad passed away in 1997, he made a small holiday village using balsa wood for both my sister and me. He added a snow blanket and small items like snow-covered evergreen trees, small street lights, and an ice skating pond with a bridge over it. It is my most cherished holiday item. It wouldn't feel like Christmas without it. I am planning on handing it down to one of my children, who have always enjoyed it. It makes me feel close to my father at the holidays!” — Amy Dahn, Aurora, Illinois

Homemade Advent Tree

“My wife and I made this from scratch for one of our first Christmases together. She designed it, and we both cut it out and assembled it. Everything is made from wood, and hand painted by both of us. We used this for many years in our first house, when we had six kids growing up. After a decade, almost all of the kids knew which picture would be shown each day.” — Blair Frodelius, Syracuse, New York

My Moose Menorah

“It was made by an artist out of an old Chevy pickup hood.” — Carol Hyman, Baltimore, Maryland

Christmas Tree Angel

“This porcelain doll was first put on top of a Christmas tree for my grandfather's first birthday in 1901. She has had several outfits over the ages, and this one since 1974. Five generations have now enjoyed Christmas with her overview.” — David Elms, Newmarket, Ontario

Self-Stitched Advent Calendar

“I started to make this calendar 45 years ago, when my eldest son was 2 years old, waiting for Christmas to come. Now I use it for my grandchildren!” — Elisabeth Vitouch, Vienna, Austria

Ceramic Christmas Tree

“My wonderful mother-in-law at the time, Frances, made and gave me the tree in the early 1970s. Her son and I weren't married long but there was a grandson, and Frances and I stayed close throughout the rest of her life. The tree is the first to come out of the garage, first out of the box, and always takes its place in the living room where its lights are reflected in the window. It would not be Christmas without it!” — Linda Hubbard, Menlo Park, California

Christmas Spinner

“This spinner ornament had to hang above a lightbulb so the heat would make it spin. My mom said that it was Christmas magic that made it spin when I was little. It's from the early '60s. — Lori Gibbs

Sasquatch Statue

"Once, as my dad and I were driving from Columbus, Ohio, back to the D.C. area, we passed a big outdoor statue shop in the middle of rural Ohio. Finding a three-foot-or-so Sasquatch statue, we bought it and brought it home as a gag. The next Christmas, we put it in our family's almost-life-sized glowing nativity scene, inside the manger and right behind Baby Jesus's cradle, there to watch over Our Lord and Savior and protect him from the prying Romans just as Chewbacca protected Han Solo in a galaxy far, far away. There's no particular reason we do this. Perhaps it is a mere testament to my family's absurdist sense of humor surrounding issues of tradition and modernity. I like to think that while Balthasar, Melchoir, and Caspar traveled from Ethiopia and India and Persia to bring Jesus frankincense, myrrh, and gold, Sasquatch also saw the bright star and trekked from Cascadia, across continents and oceans, to bring Baby Jesus a gift of cedar-smoked salmon from the Pacific Northwest, and we merely do homage to that. In any case, though the statue itself does not look like a Christmas heirloom, we contextualize it into one every year." — Luke Phillips, Northern Virginia

Raccoon Jingle Bell Ornament

“It’s something that I’ve had since I was a child. We stopped getting ornaments as presents fairly young, so I’ve had the same ones for almost 30 years.” — Mike Whittaker, Pottstown, Pennsylvania

Little Angel Ornament

“This little angel belonged to my grandmother and I remember it in her tree every year when I was growing up. It’s a little piece of my grandma that I get to have for the holiday.” — Michelle Kirby, Coos Bay, Oregon

A Two-Foot, Handmade Star of David

“My father and uncle made it in our basement in 1958. Both of them had no clue as to what they were doing, judging by the wonderful cussing back and forth to each other. I remember it clearly, as they were having so much fun putting this together. I'm so blessed to have the star, and the precious memories each year. By the way, it still has the same faulty electrical wiring, that I refuse to change out.” — Nancy Helman, Santa Fe, New Mexico

A Small, Satin Christmas Tree Ornament

“My husband saw it laying in a muddy ditch when we were walking in Puerto Natales, Chile. He picked it up and washed it off. It had a few dents in it and the ribbon on it was damaged. But, in spite of its flaws, it had a charm to it and we kept it. Because we found it together in a very cool place, and it became a special ornament to us. We put it on our Bodhisattva statue each Christmas season to celebrate the beauty in simplicity.” — Regina Dunn, DeLand, Florida

1946 Hanukkah Prayer Book and Menorah

“My parents had a Hanukkah children's prayer book from 1946, and a lovely menorah, probably from the same era. My brother and I still use them.” — Suzan Lowitz, Los Angeles, California

Embroidered Felt Christmas Ornaments

“My mother made these in the late 1970s and early 1980s. I learned to embroider very young, and always enjoyed it. I still have some of my favorite and most challenging projects. My mother did many handcrafts including sewing, knitting, crochet, and embroidery throughout my life. These handmade decorations are well crafted, colorful, and various classic shapes. My mother passed away in 2017 at the age of 86.” — Valerie Henderson, Salinas, California

Responses have been edited and condensed for length and clarity.

In some places, deep at the very bottom of the ocean, nearly as far out of sight as possible, streams of scalding water burst through openings in the seafloor called hydrothermal vents. Researchers affiliated with the Schmidt Ocean Institute in Palo Alto, California, recently shared what they found in a newly discovered vent field in the Pescadero Basin, on the floor of Mexico's Gulf of California.

The finds demonstrate just how vibrant and bizarre the invisible, mysterious, and thoroughly unexplored seafloor can be. In a release, the scientists describe “steaming hot sediments laden with orange-colored oil,” microbes that are blue for some unknown reason, and “shimmering” water that lends the vent field its name: Jaich Maa, or “liquid metal” in an indigenous language of the Baja Peninsula. The researchers report watching this gleaming water spill up from calcite mounds—some of which stretch to more than 80 feet tall—“in an upside-down waterfall” erupting from the ocean floor. The warmest vents in the field, according to a second release, shoot water at a staggering 550 degrees Fahrenheit.

Given the heat and depth, the researchers used several kinds of advanced robots to map and observe the area. First, in a practice known as “mowing the lawn,” the team used an autonomous underwater vehicle to explore a preprogrammed area, says Robert Harris, a geologist and geophysicist at Oregon State University involved with the research. This preliminary exploration helped the scientists find the vents, which they then explored with a remotely operated vehicle that they controlled from a boat on the surface.

Harris says that Jaich Maa is unusual among hydrothermal vent fields in that it does not appear to be associated with “spreading centers,” such as the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, where continental plates break apart and generate new oceanic crust. He is hopeful that, as the team continues to study the still-mysterious system, Jaich Maa can help shed new light on “how continents rift apart,” as the Baja Peninsula slowly drifts to the northwest. There will also be much to learn from the tube worms, sea anemones, and other species living in the vent field—“extremophiles” that inhabit some of the most intense ecosystems on Earth.

The Jambay Lhakhang temple has a colorful past and an equally colorful present. Supposedly one of a series of temples built to tame a demoness, today it hosts the Jambay Lhakhang Drup festival, during which the sacred Tercham, or Naked Dance, takes place.

In 659 AD, the Tibetan King Songtsen Gampo had a serious problem in his realm. A supine demoness lay across the Himalayas, causing the region to pour forth savagery and malign forces. The king’s attempts to introduce Buddhism to the country were sure to fail should this demoness remain, and the very prospect of civilization in Tibet was under threat.

To combat this evil, Songtsen Gampo built a series of temples throughout the Himalayas, each one helping to pin down the demoness. Four were built to pin down her shoulders and hips; four more on the elbows and knees; and four to hold down her hands and feet. Later histories expand this already colorful legend even further, telling of how the king built 108 temples to defeat the demoness, all of which were built in a single day.

According to these legends, the temple of Jambay Lhakhang in the Bumthang District of Bhutan was built to pin down the left knee of the demoness. And with Jambay Lhakhang and the other temples in place, the demoness was pinned to the earth forever, allowing the king to rid the land of evil and introduce Buddhism to Tibet.

Of the 108 temples supposedly built to defeat the demoness, only a handful remain. These include Jambay Lhakhang, one of the oldest and most sacred temples in the Kingdom of Bhutan.

Today, the one-story temple complex, which sits on a plateau by the Bumthang Chhu River, is just as famous for its fanciful history as it is for its annual festival. The Jambay Lhakhang Drup festival is held each year to commemorate the building of the temple and to honor Guru Rimpoche (Padmasambhava), an 8th-century Buddhist master who consecrated the Jambay Lhakhang temple.

The four-day festival features many different dances, but two are considered particularly sacred. The first is the Mewang, or Fire Dance, which is held in the evening to bless infertile women in the hope that they may later bear children.

The second is the Tercham, or Naked Dance, during which sixteen men dance around the temple, all completely naked, on the stroke of midnight. Why? Well, it apparently dates back to the 8th century, when a band of devils was causing havoc in the area. To distract the devils, the local men performed a naked dance, their unclothed antics leaving the devils spellbound and rendering them harmless. Far less messy than an exorcism.

The Museum of Edinburgh recalls the weird and wonderful history of Scotland’s capital. Step inside the bright yellow 16th-century house—which is also known as the Huntly House and the Speaking House for the many Latin inscriptions across its façade—and you'll find bizarre objects and historical narratives that will guide you through the city’s timeline.

The National Covenant of 1638, a pivotal doctrine protecting the Scottish Presbyterian Church by which civil war was declared; 18th century architect James Craig’s original plans mapping out the city’s New Town; and decorative objects from stained glass windows to late 18th century pottery showcasing a long tradition of Scottish craftsmanship are but a few examples of the treasures you’ll find at the Museum of Edinburgh on the Royal Mile in the Canongate section.

A certain highlight of the museum’s permanent collection is a small exhibition featuring the collar and bowl once belonging to Edinburgh’s beloved Greyfriars Bobby, the legendary Skye terrier who supposedly sat by his owners grave each day for 14 years until his own death. The museum also hosts a rotating program of special exhibitions.

Visitors may recognize Huntly House from the third season of the Outlander television series.

With its towering glass walls and slanting wooden arches, Calgary’s glittering New Central Library is a gem of modern architecture.

Designed to encapsulate a portion of Calgary’s light rail transit tracks, the New Central Library was an ambitious project. Not only were the architects expected to propose a unique, eye-catching design that would become the centerpiece of Calgary’s East Village, but they also had to incorporate 135 meters of transit tracks into the foundation of the building.

The architectural firms Snøhetta and DIALOG rose to the challenge, though, creating a contemporary masterpiece of architecture that has been hailed by Calgary’s mayor, Naheed Nenshi, as “a new icon for the city.” Designed as an homage to the curved cloud formations of Alberta’s Chinook winds, an elongated wooden arch rises above the entrance to the building. The elegant aesthetic of the wooden paneling extends inside the building, with the doors opening up into an expansive atrium lined by curving wooden balconies. 

Although it certainly draws the eye, the collage-like exterior of the building also serves a practical function, allowing for different levels of privacy in the building’s various spaces. Glass paneling alternates with solid facades, leaving public areas visible to the streets below while quiet study areas remain private. For book lovers and architecture buffs alike, the New Central Library is an excellent place to while away an afternoon in Calgary. 

Puebla, Mexico, is known for its colonial architecture, Talavera tile decor, and, of course, a delicious array of moles. But there is one unique drink that is not only confined to the city of Puebla, but to a small bar that operates for just a few hours a day. At La Pasita in the Barrio de Sapos, the raisin-flavored liqueur, also named pasita, has been flowing for more than 50 years.

In 1960, Emilio Contreras Aicardo purchased a small grocery store, where, among sundry goods, house-made liqueurs were also on offer. After converting the space (then called El Gallo de Oro) into a liquor store and bar, he decided to keep and continue crafting the house-made liqueurs. A year later, he trademarked the pasita (which means “little raisin”) and it’s been a signature product ever since. The brown bottles feature the image of an elegant woman holding a serving tray with a martini glass and a dangling cluster of grapes.

The drink, however, is served in a slender shot glass known as a caballito (“little horse”). The dark amber–hued pasita arrives with a toothpick-skewered cube of goat cheese and soaked raisin. Whether one decides to throw back the shot or sip it, the salty cheese and moist fruit make a refreshing accompaniment, much like other classic pairings such as chèvre and jam.

Around the bar, references to and rhymes about the drink abound. One yellow sign reads: “Maximum Velocity / 5 Pasitas per hour / Velocity controlled by radar.” For those looking to really test their speed, however, the bar also plays host to the infamous pasita challenge. Allegedly, any person who can drink 100 cups of pasita not only gets their entire bar tab covered, but wins a cash prize. The bar claims that they will also cover the winner’s funeral costs. Though proof is lacking, legend has it that one contestant did make it through the 100 drinks, but another challenger was not so lucky. The Spaniard, whose severely soused snapshot appears in a newspaper clipping hanging near the bar, made it to 93 before needing medical attention.

The Portland Art & Learning Studio is a 10,000 square foot gallery devoted to showcasing Outsider Art in Portland, Oregon.

The gallery doubles as a studio space for close to 200 artists that experience intellectual & developmental disabilities. Artists have access to a diverse array of supplies in open format studios devoted to painting, drawing, ceramics, textiles, and digital media. All of which, have made advancements in adaptive technologies to suit each artists' individual needs.  

New exhibits featuring immersive installations, sculptures, murals, and more go up monthly in the Portland Art & Learning Studio's gallery. Opening receptions are open to the public and generally happen on the last Thursday of every month.

The Portland Art & Learning Studio is part of the nonprofit Albertina Kerr, which aims to strengthen Oregon families and communities by empowering people with intellectual and developmental disabilities. 

Queen Victoria attended a garden party the evening before Prince George was to wed Princess May of Teck. The year was 1893, and the event spawned the first written mention of a dish called "Eton Mess aux Fraises," recorded by historian Arthur Beavan.

Now known simply as "Eton Mess," this easy dessert consists of broken meringue, fresh fruit (traditionally strawberries), and whipped heavy cream. Akin to other desserts popular in the region (such as Scottish cranachan or England's knickerbocker glory), Eton Mess is hardly distinguished by its ingredient list. In a feat that can only be described as incredibly British, affiliation with royalty and the literary elite is what separates the summer parfait from its culinary cousins.

In 1440, King Henry VI founded Eton College for boys near Windsor, a little more than 20 miles west of London. Famous Brits, such as George Orwell and Aldous Huxley, received their education at the renowned establishment. Eton College's other claim to fame is the Eton Mess, which many believe originated at the academic institution. While there's no written evidence of the Mess prior to its appearance at the 1893 garden party, the campus grocery did sell the namesake dessert (made with strawberries or bananas served with ice cream or cream) during the 1930s. It's now a staple at the school's annual cricket match with Harrow College and served in honor of King George III's birthday.

It's unlikely that Eton College is the first place anyone ever made a mess of strawberries, cream, and meringue, but the association is so strong that the school remains a part of the sweet's title in recipe books around the world. A mess by any other name, however, would taste just the same.