If you’ve ever wondered why Americans write “color” and “organize” while the British opt for “colour” and “organise,” you’re not alone. These subtle spelling differences are the result of migration, printing technology, colonial history, and the actions of one very determined man with strong opinions about simplicity.
What we now casually call American English is actually a snapshot of a centuries-long argument over how the language should look on the page — and who gets to decide.
At the center (or centre) of it all is a question about whether spelling should reflect tradition and history or prioritize clarity and efficiency. English has spent hundreds of years wobbling between those two ideas, and the Atlantic divide made the contrast easier to see.
English was a variable language long before anyone started debating American versus British spelling. It grew out of a mix of Germanic roots, Norse influence, and a heavy dose of Old French. That combination meant there was never a single unified system of spelling to begin with — just overlapping habits that varied by region, social class, and individual writers.
When printing arrived in the 15th century, it played a major role in gradually standardizing English spelling, though not in a fully consistent or centralized way. Early printers often drew on existing manuscript traditions and regional conventions, so variation persisted for some time. Many spellings were also influenced by French, which shaped English vocabulary and orthography after the Norman Conquest in 1066.
By the time English spread to North America in the 17th century, spelling was still relatively inconsistent, with multiple accepted forms often existing for the same word. This variation was common in both Britain and the American colonies, where spelling conventions had not yet been fully standardized and education systems were still developing.
In the United States, the push for spelling changes is closely tied to Noah Webster, a lexicographer who believed English was often overly complicated and still too closely tied to British elite culture. For Webster, how words were spelled reflected ideas about identity, education, and independence.
His goal was to make American English more logical and phonetic. In hisAmerican Dictionary of the English Language (1828), he promoted reforms that removed what he saw as unnecessary letters and inconsistencies. That’s where American spellings such as “splendor” (instead of “splendour”) and “fiber” (instead of “fibre”) began to take hold in a systematic way. Webster also favored spellings such as “realize,” reflecting the word’s Greek-derived “-ize” ending and his preference for consistent spelling patterns. “Realize” eventually became standard in American English even as “realise” became more common in British English.
Webster’s influence went beyond individual word choices. He helped push a broader philosophy that English in America should be simpler and more efficient, even if that meant breaking from British tradition. Some of his more extreme ideas — including radically respelling “tongue” as “tung” — never caught on, but the core of his system stuck and became embedded in American culture.
While Webster was promoting spelling reform in the United States, British English was consolidating its own standards in a different way. Rather than simplifying spelling, it leaned toward preserving established forms, especially those reinforced by influential works such as Samuel Johnson’s Dictionary of the English Language (1755).
Johnson’s dictionary defined around 80% of English vocabulary at the time. He also helped standardize many spellings that reflected French influence and historical usage, even when they weren’t the most efficient or phonetic options. For example, he reinforced spellings such as “colour,” “honour,” and “centre,” which preserved their historical and French-derived roots rather than adopting simplified alternatives. As British publishing and education systems grew more formalized, these spellings became standardized and resistant to change.
Over time, this created a language divide. British English generally favored (or should we say “favoured”) forms such as “realise,” “neighbour,” and “theatre,” while American English standardized these spellings as “realize,” “neighbor,” and “theater.” The split in ideologies slowly took hold through schools, newspapers, and books until it became normal for each side of the Atlantic to assume its own version was simply correct English.
Once you start noticing patterns, the differences between American and British spelling become surprisingly predictable. One of the most common changes involves words ending in “-our” in British English, which typically drop the “u” in American spellings. So “colour” becomes “color” and “labour” becomes “labor.” The pronunciation generally doesn’t change with the spelling; only the written form shifts.
There are also subtle differences in doubled consonants. British English tends to double letters in certain words — such as “travelling” and “cancelled” — while American English usually keeps them single, as in “traveling” and “canceled.”
Not every spelling difference follows a neat pattern, though. Some are simply historical outliers that developed independently over time. British English uses forms such as “cheque,” “grey,” “manoeuvre,” “pyjamas,” and “tyre,” while American English prefers “check,” “gray,” “maneuver,” “pajamas,” and “tire.” Unlike the more predictable differences, these words don’t belong to a single spelling rule. Instead, they reflect a mix of French influence, older English spellings, publishing conventions, and regional preferences that became standardized.
In the United States, simplified spelling became associated with ideas of practicality and national identity, helping distinguish American English from its British origins. Over time, forms such as “color,” “center,” and “realize” came to feel distinctly American — part of a broader pattern of linguistic independence that valued efficiency.
In Britain and other English-speaking countries, traditional spellings often signal continuity with historical usage and literary heritage. Neither approach is more correct than the other — they’re parallel systems that evolved under different pressures and priorities. At the end of the day, both versions illustrate the same language shifting, adapting, and carrying its history from one generation to the next.
Eating utensils can feel ancient and inevitable, as though humans have always gathered around tables set with forks, knives, and spoons. But for a long time, that wasn’t the case at all. Forks — today’s cutlery MVP — were once rare, controversial, and even mocked as unmanly. For most of human history (and in many parts of the world today), eating with your hands was normal.
The shift away from hands-on eating in the West didn’t happen all at once. Instead, it unfolded gradually over centuries, shaped by changing dining customs, new utensils, and evolving ideas about etiquette.
Humans have used eating tools for tens of thousands of years. Prehistoric people likely scooped liquids with shells, hollowed wood, or animal horns, while sharpened stones and bones helped cut food when needed. Spoons are especially ancient: The Anglo-Saxon word spon referred to a chip of wood, while Greek and Latin words for “spoon” were derived from the word “cochlea,” a type of spiral shell, suggesting what some early versions of the utensil may have looked like. Ancient Egyptians employed spoons carved from wood, ivory, and gold.
Knives, meanwhile, served many purposes beyond dining. In both ancient and medieval societies, they were tools, weapons, and eating utensils all at once. Guests often carried personal knives to meals, especially in medieval Europe.
But even with those tools available, most food was still eaten directly with the hands in ancient and medieval Europe. The Romans, for instance, reclined on couches while dining and used their fingers for much of the meal. Forks were virtually unknown at Roman tables, and spoons were used mainly for liquids or soft foods.
In the Middle Ages, bread acted as its own utensil. Europeans of the era generally ate meat and vegetables off thick rounds of stale bread called trenchers (think early bread bowls). Some sources suggest the trenchers were given to the poor after the meal.
Of all the eating utensils, forks had perhaps the most difficult path to acceptance. Although two-pronged forks existed in ancient Greece and Rome, they were mostly cooking tools used to handle hot food. Smaller forks for eating first spread among wealthy elites in the Byzantine Empire and the Middle East.
One of the most famous European fork controversies took place in Venice in 1004. Maria Argyropoulina, a Byzantine noblewoman marrying into a Venetian family, reportedly used delicate golden forks at her wedding feast. According to later accounts, scandalized Venetians considered the utensil decadent and unnatural. One critic supposedly complained that God had already provided humans with “natural forks” — fingers. When Maria died of the plague a few years later, some religious figures interpreted her death as punishment for vanity.
Even centuries later, forks retained an air of pretension in parts of Europe. In Renaissance Italy, they slowly gained popularity among the wealthy, and Catherine de’ Medici helped introduce fashionable fork use to France after marrying the future King Henry II in 1533. But elsewhere, many diners remained skeptical.
Around the early 1600s, English traveler Thomas Coryat returned from Italy enthusiastically describing forks he had encountered abroad. His friends mocked him relentlessly, nicknaming him “Furcifer” (Latin for “fork-bearer”). To many English people, forks seemed fussy, foreign, and faintly effeminate. That reputation lingered for a surprisingly long time. Some historians note that British sailors were still refusing to use forks around 1900 because they considered them unmanly.
Medieval meals were deeply communal: People shared dishes, serving vessels, and sometimes knives or spoons. But beginning around the 17th century, European dining gradually became more formal and more individualized. Guests increasingly received their own plates, cutlery, and designated place settings.
As etiquette grew more elaborate, forks became increasingly useful — and increasingly expected. By the 18th century, forks were making inroads with wealthy Europeans, and by the 19th century, eating with your hands at formal meals was considered improper except for a few approved foods (such as bread or olives).
Victorian culture then took dining etiquette to remarkable extremes. Wealthy households accumulated specialized utensils for nearly every imaginable dish: fish knives, asparagus tongs, snail forks, tomato servers, and chocolate muddlers, to name just a few. Some upper-class cutlery sets approached 100 separate pieces.
But since then, flatware sets have been shrinking. Modern diners use far fewer utensils than their Victorian predecessors, partly because elaborate formal dining has declined — and partly because few people want to polish dozens of specialty forks.
Most of the World Never Stopped Eating With Their Hands
Even as forks became standard in Europe and North America, many cultures continued eating with hands or chopsticks. Chopsticks had already been used in China for thousands of years before forks became widespread in the West. Originally developed for cooking, they later became everyday eating tools across East Asia.
Meanwhile, in India, Sri Lanka, parts of the Middle East, Africa, and elsewhere, eating with the hands remains both ordinary and highly sophisticated. Different regions developed their own techniques and etiquette around handling food properly — from shaping rice with the fingertips to avoiding the use of the left hand (which is associated with bathroom use in some parts of the world).
And even in the modern West, people never entirely abandoned eating with their hands. Pizza, burgers, tacos, sandwiches, french fries, and fried chicken are all commonly eaten without utensils. In other words, some of the world’s most popular foods still rely on the oldest eating tools humans have ever had: what’s on the end of our arms.
If you picture America’s Founding Fathers as solemn men with stern faces and powdered wigs, you’re getting only half the story. In reality, these figures spent much of their lives writing impassioned letters, arguing politics, insulting rivals, exaggerating grievances, and trying to outwit one another in prose.
Humor naturally slipped into their writing, sometimes intentionally and sometimes because sarcasm can be easily employed against those who annoy us. Thomas Jefferson once argued that “ridicule is the only weapon which can be used against unintelligible propositions.”
George Washington, for one, was known to occasionally speak his mind through dry humor. In one instance, he attended a military banquet after the Revolutionary War where elaborate silver cups were presented. After learning that the man who designed the cups had since become a Quaker minister — and knowing that Quakers preferred a plain and simple style that was closer to his own taste — Washington reportedly remarked that he wished the craftsman “had been a Quaker preacher before he made the cups.”
John Adams, meanwhile, had no problem turning his irritations and aggravations into witty insults. Describing Benjamin Franklin in a 1783 letter, Adams complained that Franklin’s “whole life has been one continued insult to good manners and to decency.”
The jab was meant as criticism, but it also sounds suspiciously like admiration. Because, while many of the founders could occasionally land a sharp line, it was Benjamin Franklin who added humor to nearly everything he wrote.
Franklin’s public image often emphasizes the brilliant inventor with the kite, bifocals, and lightning rod. Less attention goes to the fact that he enjoyed provoking people almost as much as he enjoyed experimenting.
That personality quirk first appeared when he was a young man in Boston, working as an apprentice in his brother’s Boston printing shop. When his brother refused to publish his writing in the newspaper, Franklin invented a fictional middle-aged widow named Mrs. Silence Dogood and slipped essays with her name on them under the door at night so they would be printed.
The Silence Dogood letters were witty and mildly scandalous by colonial standards. In one letter, Mrs. Dogood described Harvard graduates returning home “as great Blockheads as ever, only more proud and self-conceited.” Readers loved the widow’s sharp observations — some men even reportedly proposed marriage to the imaginary woman — and Franklin delighted in using invented characters to say things he could not safely say as himself.
One of Franklin’s most famous comic pieces is the essay now known as “Fart Proudly,” written while he was living in France. People who know Franklin only as the grandfatherly statesman are often startled to discover that he once composed an elaborate satirical proposal encouraging scientists to find a way to make human flatulence smell pleasant.
What makes the piece genuinely funny even now is that Franklin never breaks character. Intended for “He that is conscious of a Stink in his breeches,” the essay is written in the polished, rational tone of Enlightenment-era science. He discusses the matter as though he were proposing a perfectly respectable improvement for humanity, recommending research into foods and powders capable of rendering “wind as agreeable as perfume.”
Franklin returned to the same strategy in other satirical writings, including the essay “Rules by Which a Great Empire May Be Reduced to a Small One,” where he adopts the voice of a straight-faced political adviser in order to critique the British government. His “advice” is deliberately counterproductive in ways that mirror bad governance, such as multiplying unnecessary offices, rewarding inefficiency, and encouraging public debt. The effect is cumulative and the humor depends on the same principle as “Fart Proudly” — the more convincingly serious the voice, the more absurd the conclusion becomes.
If Franklin had done nothing except publish Poor Richard’s Almanack, he would still rank among the most widely read writers of colonial America. First issued in 1732 under the pseudonym Richard Saunders, the almanac combined weather predictions, practical advice, and short sayings designed to be repeated easily in everyday conversation.
The most enduring of these proverbs survive because they often share wisdom in the form of a joke. Franklin turned moral observations into memorable, humorous lines in sayings such as, “He that lies down with dogs shall rise up with fleas,” “Fish and visitors smell in three days,” and “Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.”
He also borrowed freely from older sources, then refined the ideas to make them uniquely his own. That process helped the sayings survive, but it also reflects his broader approach to communication. Franklin wrote for readers who would repeat his lines at tables, in taverns, and in conversation, shaping his prose for ease of recall and circulation rather than literary preservation. That timeless quality may be why he endures as the funniest of the Founding Fathers — some of his humor is as relevant today as it was when he observed in 1789, “In this world, nothing is certain except death and taxes.”
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A Purrfect History of the House Cat
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AuthorKevin McCaffrey
June 11, 2026
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The first felines existed more than 10 million years ago, predating humans by millions of years. Perhaps the fact that cats were here first explains why they’re so comfortable acting like they own the place. It also won’t be a surprise to anyone who’s had a pet kitty to hear that the alliance between human and cat was probably the cat’s idea. Cats may have a reputation as aloof and self-sufficient divas, but these fluffy felines have been beloved pets in homes around the world for millennia. Here’s the story of how cats and humans first came together.
It’s been difficult for researchers to pin down the exact origin of the house cat, but it’s believed our furry friends evolved from wildcats roughly 12,000 years ago, around the time that humans moved to an agricultural lifestyle. In 2004, French archaeologists on the Mediterranean island of Cyprus found what is now the earliest evidence of a pet kitty: a human buried with a cat in a grave that was at least 9,500 years old. Researchers know this pair must have traveled together because wildcats were not native to any other Mediterranean island aside from Sicily. The cat was also buried facing the same way as the human, just 16 inches away, indicating a close relationship.
Before this discovery, the earliest house cats were thought to have been from either ancient Egypt or China. Archaeologists in China found evidence of cats sharing a home with farmers in the village of Quanhucun 5,300 years ago, and Egyptian art depicts cats and humans living together as far back as 4,000 years ago. Ancient Egyptians were famously fond of felines, and thought so highly of their cats that they associated them with godlike qualities. The Egyptian royal class would even dress cats in gold and let them eat from their plates.
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House Cat DNA
Researchers suspect that all domestic cats descended from a subspecies of the Eurasian and African wildcat Felis silvestris, which roughly translates to “cat of the woods.” Four strains of the subspecies can be traced to wildcats in Europe, China, Central Asia, and Southern Africa, and the fifth subspecies, Silvestris lybica, the Middle Eastern wildcat, is what gave us the house-dwelling cats we know and love today.
Over time, house cats evolved from these wildcats in several notable ways. Today’s kitties tend to be smaller, due to a change in diet and activity level, and their coats have become more colorful as they have less of an evolutionary need to blend in with their surroundings. Domestication also rapidly increased the number of different breeds: As of 200 years ago, only five breeds of domestic cat were recognized. Today, the Cat Fanciers’ Association recognizes 45 separate breeds, while the International Cat Association recognizes 73. While dogs are bred in a wide variety of sizes, shapes, and temperaments, house cats are much more genetically similar across the board, the main differences coming in coat patterns and color. This is because dogs were bred for a number of different jobs, such as herding, hunting, and sled-pulling, while cats have mainly specialized in one domestic task.
When humans began moving away from hunting to a farming lifestyle, they had to deal with new problems that came with storing excess crops — namely, rodents. Cats saw an abundance of prey, and decided to call these settlements home. Humans, meanwhile, figured that having cats around was preferable to having an infestation of pests. What’s more, the furry exterminators, who have an almost full-protein diet, had no interest in eating the grain.
This same principle exists today in businesses that have a symbiotic relationship with felines, such as in New York City, where food market owners gladly pay the $200-$350 fine from the health department to keep cats around and the mice away. This mutually beneficial dynamic was necessary to make the pairing between humans and cats work, because otherwise the feline’s nature as a solo predator makes it a tough match for domestication. Dogs, who were domesticated thousands of years before cats, are natural pack animals who see humans as the alpha. Cats, as any cat owner will tell you, do not. This is why scientists believe it was likely the cats, not the humans, who made the move to initiate a partnership — and only because there was something in it for them.
Cats came to the United States with the earliest colonists from Great Britain; it’s believed the American shorthair cat descended from these European kitties. As of 2020, about 37 million U.S. households (26%) had a cat, and 1.3 million of those had five cats or more, for a total of roughly 60 million pet cats nationwide. Some 43% of those cats were bought from pet stores, while another 40% were picked up from shelters or rescues. A lot has changed from the early barn cats that found us thousands of years ago, but the most popular name for male pet cats in the U.S. is also one of the first on record: Tom.
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5 Strange Traditions of the British Monarchy
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AuthorTony Dunnell
June 11, 2026
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Britain is a nation of many strange old traditions, from cheese rolling and wife carrying to mayor weighing and possibly the world’s most brutal ball game. Then there’s the British royal family, an almost endless source of quirky behavior and bizarre rituals. Some of these are well known, at least among Brits, such as the use of the majestic plural, better known as the “royal we” (Queen Elizabeth II often used “we” to refer to herself), and the monarch’s custom of having two birthdays. Other odd traditions of the British royals are less well known, despite having existed for centuries. Here are some of the strangest, involving everything from swans to ravens to parliamentary hostages.
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Swans Are Ceremonially Counted on the River Thames
Since medieval times, the British monarch has had certain rights when it comes to the country’s swans. “The king has the right to claim any swan swimming in open waters, unmarked, if he so wishes,” explained David Barber, who served as Queen Elizabeth II’s swan marker (an actual position in the royal household that dates back to the 12th century). To this day, an annual census of the swans takes place on a stretch of the River Thames. The five-day journey upriver, known as “swan upping,” features a fleet of traditional rowing skiffs, led by the swan marker. The royals once considered swans a delicacy, but swan upping is now focused on conservation and education rather than any culinary considerations.
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A Member of Parliament Is Taken Hostage When the Monarch Visits
Back in the 17th century, King Charles I had a contentious relationship with Parliament. (It didn’t end well for Charles, who was executed for high treason in 1649.) As the story goes, the king feared for his own safety every time he visited the legislative houses, and so he decided to take a hostage who would be held at Buckingham Palace as insurance until his safe return. The tradition has continued to the present day. Every year, when the monarch goes to the State Opening of Parliament, a member of Parliament is symbolically held hostage at the palace — probably being served copious amounts of tea and scones — until the king or queen returns.
Sheriffs Are Appointed By Pricking Parchment With a Sewing Needle
Apart from the crown itself, the oldest secular office in the United Kingdom is the Office of High Sheriff, which has existed for more than 1,000 years. These sheriffs, or “shire-reeves,” were appointed each year by the monarch to maintain law and order within a shire, or county. For centuries, these appointments have been marked on a parchment roll in an unusual fashion. Rather than use a pen or even a quill, the monarch instead pricks the parchment using a bodkin, a silver needle normally used for hand-sewing. The practice is often said to have begun with Queen Elizabeth I, who supposedly chose to perforate the parchment while embroidering in the garden, simply because it was easier than using a pen. But this is a colorful myth, as a “pricked” sheriffs’ roll exists from the reign of Elizabeth’s grandfather, Henry VII. Pricking was likely favored for practical reasons: A pen mark could easily be erased with a knife, but a hole was far more difficult to hide or repair without someone noticing.
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Six Ravens Must Reside in the Tower of London to Protect Britain
According to British legend, both crown and country will fall if the Tower of London’s resident ravens ever leave their post. Various stories exist to explain this royal tradition, but the most pervasive legend comes from the 17th century and the reign of Charles II. It is said that the royal astronomer, John Flamsteed, complained about the ravens interfering with his observatory work, prompting the king to order their elimination. But Charles was warned that should the ravens leave, a “great disaster” would befall the nation. Heeding this advice, the king decreed that ravens should be kept at the tower at all times. During World War II, the number of resident ravens decreased to just one, and when the war was over officials ordered that their numbers be increased once again to six.
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The Duke of Wellington's Rent Is the French Flag
Every year since 1817, the presiding Duke of Wellington pays a visit to the king or queen to pay his rent. But instead of money, the duke presents the monarch with the tricolor flag of France. This strange tradition came about following the heroic efforts of Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington, at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815. Wellington’s leadership was vital in the pivotal victory against Napoleon Bonaparte’s French army, in a battle that marked the end of the Napoleonic Wars. For his efforts, Wellington was gifted Stratfield Saye House, a country estate in Hampshire. To this day, the duke continues to pay his symbolic annual rent of one French flag — a copy of the tricolor captured at Waterloo. In theory, the duke and his family could be ignominiously kicked out of their property should the rent not be paid. For this reason, a spare copy of the flag is kept at Stratfield Saye, just in case anything goes awry.
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5 Infamous Museum Heists
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AuthorNicole Villeneuve
June 11, 2026
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Museum heists are often depicted as high-stakes adventures in movies and novels — a fictional counterpart to the dramatic real-life robberies that have been taking place for centuries. While they vary in scale (and success), museum heists have a few core elements in common: audacity, craftsmanship, and unabashed guile. While suspects are sometimes caught and stolen goods are occasionally recovered, the details of these crimes often remain a mystery. From the theft of the “Mona Lisa” in 1911, which catapulted a once-relatively obscure painting to global fame, to the enigmatic Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum heist of 1990, when masterpieces by Vermeer and Rembrandt vanished, here are some of the most infamous museum heists in history.
The theft of the “Mona Lisa” has been called the greatest art theft of the 20th century, but it was a rather rudimentary operation. On the morning of August 21, 1911, the now-famous Leonardo da Vinci painting was carried out of the Louvre in Paris, France, by three Italian handymen who had covered it in a blanket. The men — one of whom, Vincenzo Peruggia, was a former museum employee — are believed to have hidden in a supply closet overnight before removing the painting, its frame, and its protective glass case off the wall while the museum was closed that Monday morning.
At first, no one even noticed the painting was gone; it wasn’t until 28 hours later that the bare spot on the wall was finally acknowledged. Before it went missing, the “Mona Lisa” — now considered the most famous painting in the world — was largely unknown outside the art world. After the heist, images of the Renaissance masterpiece were plastered on newspapers around the world, cementing it as the world-famous piece it is today. The painting remained missing for two years as the investigation went awry; at one point, artist Pablo Picasso was even considered a suspect. In 1913, Peruggia finally attempted to sell the portrait, triggering an arrest and a stint in jail. The “Mona Lisa” was finally recovered in Florence and returned to the Louvre, where it still hangs today.
It ranks among the most audacious art thefts in history — and it still remains unsolved. In the early morning hours of March 18, 1990, two people disguised as police officers convinced the security guards at Boston’s Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum to let them inside. The thieves proceeded to subdue the unsuspecting guards and, leaving them handcuffed to pipes in the building’s basement, spent 81 minutes brazenly stealing 13 works of art. Priceless pieces by Rembrandt van Rijn and Édouard Manet were among the stolen goods, as was Johannes Vermeer’s “The Concert,” considered the most expensive missing work of art today.
In the aftermath, empty frames hung on the museum walls, as the artworks they housed were cut out and removed during the heist. Despite investigators identifying several probable culprits over the years, and a recent Netflix series and investigative podcast about the heist, as well as new clues deepening the possible ties to organized crime, the Gardner heist remains unsolved, and there’s a $10 million reward for information leading to the recovery of the stolen pieces. The empty frames still hang on the walls today.
In 1964, Jack Roland Murphy — better known as “Murf the Surf” — along with his accomplices Allan Kuhn and Roger Clark, orchestrated a burglary at the American Museum of Natural History in New York City. Weeks before the crime, the three well-dressed men made their way from Miami to a Manhattan penthouse, where they were living large and practicing stealing from wealthy hotel bar patrons in the process. Soon, they turned their attention to the jewels in the nearby museum. They spent time inside the building to learn the layout and plan their eventual break-in.
On the night of October 29, the three men made their way to the museum. Murphy and Kuhn climbed a fire escape before breaking into the unlocked fourth-floor windows, while Clark served as a lookout below. Luckily for them, the gems’ display cases didn’t even have a working alarm system, enabling the thieves to easily make off with the Star of India (a 563-carat sapphire), the rare Eagle Diamond, the 100.32-carat DeLong Star Ruby, and handfuls of other precious gems totaling a modern-day value of about $3 million. The crime was hardly professional; they left a careless trail, and within days they were found and arrested, many of the gems recovered. Murphy appeared nonchalant in the press, smoking a cigar and claiming the arrest had thrown a wrench into his plans to spend the winter surfing. The public ate it up, turning them into unlikely folk heroes. Eventually, the trio served a few years each behind bars.
One of the most high-profile heists in recent history was the 2019 Green Vault burglary. Located in Dresden, Germany, the museum (known locally as the Grünes Gewölbe) is known for having one of Europe’s largest collections of precious historical treasures, including jewelry, gemstones, and other artifacts that showcase the opulence of the Baroque era’s Saxon kings. In the early hours of November 25, 2019, thieves began their break-in by starting a fire nearby, which destroyed an electrical box and caused the street lights around the museum to go dark. They then broke the museum’s security panel and smashed through a window, making their way to the priceless jewelry displays; within minutes they had made off with a trove of irreplaceable items valued at about $128 million. The suspects then started another fire — this time to a car in a nearby parking garage — before jumping in their own getaway car and fleeing to Berlin.
After an extensive investigation, raids were carried out a year later in Berlin and the first of the suspects was apprehended. In the end, five men, all from the same prominent crime family, admitted their involvement in the heist; one even apologized and said he’d made a mistake. In early 2023, they were convicted and given prison time ranging from four years and four months to six years and three months. Despite extensive efforts to recover the stolen artifacts, many of them still remain missing.
In the early morning hours of September 4, 1972, a man wearing a ski mask and spiked climbing shoes scaled a tree to get to the roof of the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts. He lowered a ladder to his two awaiting accomplices, and then, using a rope, the trio rappelled into the building through an unsecured skylight. Once inside, they tied up the security guards and started their spree, stealing 18 paintings (including a rare Rembrandt landscape) and 39 other artifacts valuing $2 million in 1972 (about $15 million today).
The men were believed to have left in haste, on foot, after accidentally tripping an alarm. (Another Rembrandt, as well as paintings by Pablo Picasso, El Greco, and more, were left behind on the floor.) Within a few days of the heist, the museum was contacted and told where to find one of the stolen items near a public pay phone. One month later, an envelope with photos of the stolen paintings and a ransom request for $500,000 arrived at the museum; it was not a successful attempt, but one of the paintings was returned in good faith. A year later, there was another ransom attempt from the supposed capers, but it amounted to nothing and the trail went cold. In the 1990s, new suspects and leads were pursued, but the case remains unsolved.
Nowadays, automobiles and traffic sounds are ubiquitous in urban areas, but if you could step back in time a century or so, many of America’s most recognizable cities would look surprisingly unfamiliar. The buildings might still be there — or at least their predecessors — but the streets below would be filled with a very different kind of movement.
Think of your favorite city and imagine seeing it before cars, traffic lights, parking garages, gas stations, and paved six-lane roads. In the late 19th century, downtown streets were gathering places as well as transportation routes, lined with pedestrians, streetcars, horse-drawn vehicles, and storefronts catering to people arriving on foot.
These five photos capture a moment in history when American cities were growing rapidly, but the automobile had not yet fully reshaped the urban landscape.
In the 1890s, Washington, D.C., was still evolving from a government town into a true national capital. Pennsylvania Avenue served as the city’s main street, linking the U.S. Capitol to the White House and carrying a steady flow of politicians, civil servants, visitors, and local residents. In this photograph, horse-drawn carriages and streetcars fill the broad avenue while pedestrians move through the street, creating a scene that feels far removed from the traffic-choked corridors of modern Washington.
The city itself was entering a period of dramatic transformation. Following decades of post-Civil War growth, Washington was expanding its public infrastructure, installing electric streetcar lines, and developing many of the neighborhoods that still define the city today. Although the Capitol dome dominates the skyline in the distance in this photo, much of the city we recognize today — including many federal buildings and monuments — had yet to be constructed.
This photograph captures Chicago during one of the most remarkable building booms in American history. A little more than 20 years earlier, the Great Chicago Fire of 1871 had devastated much of the city. But by 1893, Chicago had rebuilt itself into an industrial powerhouse and was hosting the World’s Columbian Exposition, a world’s fair that attracted millions of visitors and showcased America’s growing economic strength.
State Street sat at the heart of that transformation. Department stores, hotels, theaters, and office buildings turned the corridor into one of the nation’s busiest commercial districts. Electric streetcars carried shoppers and workers through a city that was quickly becoming a showcase for modern architecture, engineering, and urban planning. While automobiles would eventually reshape Chicago’s streets, the city in this photograph was still defined by railroads, public transit, and the explosive growth of the Gilded Age.
By the time this photograph was taken, sometime in the late 19th century, San Francisco had already spent decades reinventing itself after the California gold rush. What began as a rough-and-tumble boomtown had grown into the commercial and financial center of the American West. The busy street scene in this image reflects a city fueled by international trade, banking, shipping, and the constant flow of people arriving through its busy harbor.
The tracks running through the street hint at one of San Francisco’s most enduring innovations: its cable car system. Invented in the 1870s, cable cars helped residents travel San Francisco’s famously steep hills and became a defining feature of the city’s image. It’s difficult to imagine that only a few years after this photo was taken, much of the city would be devastated by the 1906 earthquake and fire, forever altering the skyline.
This view of Broadway was captured at a pivotal moment in American history. In 1865, the Civil War was coming to an end and the nation was facing the difficult process of Reconstruction. New York City had emerged from the conflict as the country’s leading financial center, with merchants, bankers, publishers, and shipping interests helping drive the city’s rapid expansion.
Yet the New York seen here is almost unrecognizable compared to modern-day Manhattan. The skyline was still relatively low, church steeples stood out above surrounding buildings, and landmarks such as the Brooklyn Bridge, the subway system, and the great skyscrapers of the early 20th century were still years away. This photograph preserves a city on the verge of dramatic change, poised between the horse-drawn 19th century and the global metropolitan destination it would soon become.
Unlike the rapidly industrializing cities farther north, St. Augustine was building its future around tourism. Founded in 1565, the Florida town was already centuries old when railroad entrepreneur Henry Flagler arrived in the 1880s and began transforming it into a luxury winter destination for wealthy Americans escaping colder climates.
The magnificent Ponce de Leon Hotel (now Flagler College) became the centerpiece of that vision. Its Spanish Renaissance architecture reflected the city’s colonial heritage while signaling a new era of prosperity tied to rail travel and leisure tourism. Visitors arrived by train, toured the historic streets by carriage, and experienced a version of Florida long before highways, theme parks, and oceanfront high-rises transformed the state into one of America’s most-visited destinations.
During the Middle Ages, there was no such thing as a coffee shop in Europe. Coffee itself was unknown in the region until the 17th century, long after the medieval period ended. But even without the stimulating effects of caffeine, people needed places to gather, trade news, and socialize. Medieval Europe had its own everyday gathering spots — places that served many of the same social roles coffee shops would later fill.
Coffee drinking as we know it today began in the 15th century in the Red Sea region (around Northeast Africa and the Arabian Peninsula), where beans were roasted, ground, and brewed into the earliest form of the drink. From there, coffee culture spread quickly throughout the Ottoman Empire (modern-day Turkey) during the 16th century.
Meanwhile, medieval Europe remained solidly a land of ale, wine, and mead. Water wasn’t always safe, alcohol was an everyday beverage, and caffeine had not yet entered the scene (tea arrived around the same time as coffee, in the 17th century).
In this context, the medieval equivalent of a coffee shop was defined less by people’s beverage choices and more by their habits. Folks needed warm interiors, shared tables, and a sense of community, and they got those things from familiar establishments with very different menus.
Taverns and inns were the primary social hubs of medieval towns. Travelers stopped for food and lodging; locals came to talk business, catch up on gossip, and share a drink. Alehouses were more modest and more widespread (as well as somewhat more likely to let women inside). They catered to the working classes, were often run out of someone’s home, and offered a cheap place to sit, drink, and socialize.
Bathhouses also served a social role in many urban centers, particularly in Central and Northern Europe. While we might think of them mainly as hygiene sites today, medieval bathhouses were lively social spaces where people lingered for hours to relax, eat, chat, and transact business. (Sometimes they were also places for medical and dental care.) In the absence of coffee, these were Europe’s third places — a mix of pub, café, and community center.
The first true coffeehouses emerged not in Europe but across the Islamic world, where alcohol was forbidden. These kaveh kanes offered patrons a place to sip coffee, play games, hear storytellers, and debate politics. They quickly became centers of urban life. However, their egalitarian structure — any man could buy a cup — worried rulers, and coffeehouses were periodically banned in the Ottoman Empire for encouraging political talk and potential dissent.
Despite these crackdowns, the concept spread. Europe’s first coffeehouses appeared in the 17th century: Venice in 1629, Oxford in 1650, and London in 1652. Soon after that, the establishments caught on in the English provinces and beyond. These new spaces took many cues from older public houses but offered important differences. They were quieter than taverns, served stimulating rather than intoxicating drinks, and encouraged news consumption and discussion. The English coffeehouse became known in Oxford as the “penny university,” where the price of a cup granted access to the news of the day and lively, sober debate.
By the late 17th century, coffeehouses had embedded themselves in European urban culture. They often served the functions of today’s office, including mailroom, board room, and desk space. Paris’ Café Procope became a favorite of Enlightenment thinkers. London coffeehouses helped birth major institutions such as Lloyd’s of London (originally Lloyd’s Coffee House), Christie’s, Sotheby’s, and even the stock exchange. Newspapers and pamphlets covered communal tables, and customers gathered to read, write, and argue.
By the 18th and 19th centuries, European interest shifted between coffee, tea, and newer social venues (such as private member’s clubs and cheap bars), but the coffeehouse model endured. It revived in new forms in the 20th century — from beatnik dens to Italian American cafés — and reshaped itself again with the rise of specialty drinks, free Wi-Fi, and laptop culture.
But the idea behind all these spaces remains much older. Long before coffee reached Europe, medieval people already knew the value of places where strangers could become neighbors. Their taverns, alehouses, and bathhouses weren’t coffee shops in the literal sense, but they filled the same human need for warmth, company, and conversation.
Since the 1950s, American architectural trends have tended to favor open-concept plans, with one room flowing into the next. But there was a time when the typical house didn’t open into one sweeping, uninterrupted space. Instead, it presented a series of thresholds — doors upon doors, each one leading to a room with its own function, level of privacy, or place in daily life.
You might remember visiting your grandparents’ home and noticing that certain doors were closed “to keep the heat in.” Or maybe your house had a swinging kitchen door that didn’t stay open, or the guest bedroom remained closed off from the rest of the house until company arrived. Here’s a look at why older houses had so many doors, and what all those separate rooms were for.
In older homes, rooms were expected to serve distinct functions, and doors helped reinforce those boundaries. A dining room was reserved for meals, a parlor was intended for receiving guests, and a study was for working or reading. Rather than blending activities together, houses were organized into separate spaces with clear expectations about how they would be used. In middle- and upper-class homes especially, maintaining these distinctions was often seen as a sign of order and respectability.
Doors created a sense of transition from one part of the household to another. Moving from the kitchen to the dining room or from a hallway into a formal parlor meant entering a space with a different purpose. The compartmentalized floor plans common before the mid-20th century reflected a belief that a well-run household functioned best when activities were kept separate.
In many earlier homes, rooms were connected directly to one another, meaning people often had to pass through one space to reach the next. As hallways, or corridors, became more common in residential architecture during the 18th and 19th centuries, they created dedicated routes through the house and reduced the need to walk through rooms that were being actively used. This new layout helped separate private spaces from household traffic and made homes easier to navigate.
The growing use of hallways also increased the number of doors inside a home. Rather than a chain of interconnected rooms, houses could be organized around central halls with separate entrances to individual spaces. The arrangement allowed rooms to function more independently while giving occupants greater privacy and control over how different areas of the house were used.
As homes became more compartmentalized and hallways gave rooms their own entrances, families gained greater control over personal space. This became increasingly important as ideas about household privacy evolved during the 19th and early 20th centuries. Bedrooms, studies, and later indoor bathrooms were expected to provide a degree of separation from the rest of the household.
Older homes were often occupied by larger families, and personal space was not always easy to find. Multiple children frequently shared bedrooms, and several generations might live under the same roof. Doors provided a simple way to reduce noise, limit interruptions, and create moments of solitude within a busy household.
Before central heating became widespread, keeping a house warm required a very different approach. Many homes relied on fireplaces, wood stoves, coal stoves, or localized radiators, which heated individual rooms rather than the entire structure. Closing doors helped keep warmth where it was needed and prevented heat from drifting into unused areas. In colder climates, households often developed routines around which rooms would be heated and occupied during different times of the day.
This practical reality shaped the layout of houses for generations. During winter, families often spent most of their time in a few heated rooms while the rest of the house remained considerably cooler. Interior doors acted as simple but effective climate-control tools, helping households conserve fuel and maintain a more comfortable temperature. Long before programmable thermostats existed, a door was one of the easiest ways to control heat within the home.
Today, kitchens are often designed as gathering spaces that open into great rooms or living rooms, but historically they were considered work areas that shouldn’t be seen. Preparing meals from scratch generated heat, smoke, noise, and strong cooking odors, making the kitchen one of the busiest and most demanding rooms in the house. For that reason, it was usually separated from formal living areas whenever possible. In many homes, keeping the kitchen out of sight was considered just as important as keeping its heat and smells contained.
Many kitchens had multiple doors serving different purposes. One might connect directly to the dining room for serving meals, while another led outside for deliveries, firewood, or access to gardens and outbuildings. These doorways helped keep household work moving efficiently while limiting the spread of heat, smells, and clutter into the rest of the home. Features such as swinging doors and butler’s pantries further reflected the desire to keep preparation and presentation separate.
Traditional building techniques naturally encouraged houses to be divided into smaller rooms. Creating large, open spaces required longer structural spans and stronger support systems, which were more difficult and expensive to achieve with the materials available at the time. As a result, builders often relied on load-bearing walls to support upper floors and roofs. Those structural walls naturally broke homes into a series of smaller spaces connected by doors and hallways.
Once those walls were in place, adding doors was a practical way to connect rooms while preserving the structure of the house. The result was a floor plan filled with thresholds, hallways, and enclosed spaces. Only later, as steel beams, engineered lumber, and modern heating and cooling systems became common, did open-concept layouts become easier and more desirable to build. What appears unusual today was once simply the most practical way to construct a comfortable and durable home.
Few moments in a person’s life are as emotional — and possibly as nerve-racking — as a marriage proposal. These proposals tend to be instantly recognizable, with a suitor dropping to one knee, ring in hand, to ask perhaps the most important question of their life: “Will you marry me?”
It’s a tradition observed across much of the Western world, and one depicted in countless paintings, photos, films, and social media posts. But where does the customary kneeling gesture come from? We could, after all, be doing all manner of actions: standing with our arms out wide, bowing theatrically, or spinning on our heads in an act of wild virility. Let’s journey back through the centuries to find out when kneeling first became a common act, and how it attached itself to the art of proposing marriage.
To understand the act of kneeling before someone, whether with amorous intentions or otherwise, we first need to look at the history of genuflection. The verb “genuflect” comes from the Latin genūflectĕre, in which genū means “knee” and flectĕre “to bend.” And bending the knee was popular long before Game of Thronesintroduced the expression to a modern audience.
It’s impossible to say exactly when it became commonplace, but we know that Alexander the Great adopted the Persian custom of proskynesis (genuflection) as part of his court etiquette sometime around 327 BCE. In other words, kneeling has been a custom for a very long time, as a way to show deference to someone — typically a person of higher status.
Fast-forward to medieval Europe: By the Middle Ages, kneeling had become a deeply meaningful act embedded in both the social and religious customs of everyday life. Genuflecting was a well-established practice in the Catholic faith, in which people would kneel to pray, specifically on the right knee. This practice continues today: According to the General Instruction of the Roman Missal, a governing document published in 1969, “a genuflection, made by bending the right knee to the ground, signifies adoration, and therefore it is reserved for the Most Blessed Sacrament.”
Knights and vassals also kneeled before lords, kings, and queens as a formal gesture of loyalty, obedience, and submission. Typically, a person would kneel on the left knee while swearing loyalty or service to a monarch, noble, or anyone of superior rank; the right knee was reserved for religious genuflection. The main exception to this custom was (and still is) the tradition of British knighting ceremonies, in which the knight-elect kneels on their right knee in front of the king or queen to receive their knighthood.
The practice of kneeling was not confined to religious and feudal ceremony in medieval Europe. Knights and noblemen also knelt before noblewomen as part of the tradition of courtly love, a cultural phenomenon in which a man would pledge his admiration and service to a lady. It was all a bit confusing back then, as the man might already have been married — often as the result of a business deal or strategic alliance. Sometimes, a new courtly commitment to a woman was serious but strictly platonic.
Nonetheless, the male admirer would dedicate himself fully to the noblewoman, kneeling before her in a gesture signifying love, loyalty, and service. By lowering himself physically to one knee (the left), the nobleman was elevating the woman above him, placing her in a position of honor.
Medieval men didn’t necessarily propose marriage this way, but the act of kneeling before a woman to show respect and love became a custom in its own right. The ritual slowly filtered down from the nobility to the common people, shedding its feudal connotations and taking on a more romantic meaning.
While getting down on one knee to propose marriage has its roots in the courts and castles of medieval Europe, it didn’t become a custom in the Middle Ages or the centuries that followed (the majority of proposals up until the modern era were more like business transactions between families rather than romantic propositions). The practice only became a common part of marriage proposals hundreds of years later — in the cinemas of the silent movie era. According to author and university professor Paullett Golden, kneeling to propose marriage is largely a modern convention that began in the U.S.: “One of the first places we see bended knee proposals,” Golden writes, “is in the silent films of the 1920s.”
In these movies, having a suitor bend the knee to propose marriage was a clear way to visually represent what was happening, rather than having two actors stare at each other with captions explaining that a proposal was taking place. The gesture was already familiar to the audience due to its widely known historical context, so it was a simple and dramatic way to show a romantic marriage proposal with no audible dialogue. This visual convention was repeated so often, and proved so effective, that it gradually crossed over from fiction into real life.
Having begun as a gesture of religious devotion, feudal fealty, and courtly love, bending the knee therefore became a standard element of the marriage proposal thanks in large part to Hollywood. According to tradition, a person proposing marriage should get down on their left knee — a relic of the medieval custom. But most people today don’t make this particular historic distinction when gearing up to pop the question.
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