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George Washington never lived in Washington, D.C.

Engraving of the Samuel Osgood House
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Author Michael Nordine
June 4, 2026

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There are a lot of places named after George Washington, and he never lived in any of them — including Washington, D.C., which was established as the nation’s capital shortly after he became president. (D.C. replaced Philadelphia as the capital thanks to the Residence Act, which was passed on July 16, 1790.) 

Washington, the only U.S. president who never lived in the White House, had three different residences during his two terms in office from 1789 to 1797: the Samuel Osgood House and Alexander Macomb House in New York City and the President’s House in Philadelphia. Washington did pick the location of the White House, which was built between 1791 and 1800, but John Adams was the first to move in.

“I … take the liberty of requesting the favor of you to engage lodgings for me previous to my arrival [in New York City for the inauguration],” Washington wrote in a letter to James Madison in March 1789. “On the subject of lodgings I will frankly declare, I mean to go into none but hired ones — If these cannot be had tolerably convenient … I would take rooms in the most decent Tavern …” 
The Osgood House was the solution, and Congress rented it for him for $845 a year. Washington moved to the Macomb House — which was larger and overlooked the Hudson River — once it became vacant, but lived there for only six months in 1790 before moving to the Presidential Mansion. The latter appears to have been his favorite place to hang his hat while president, as he once described the three-story brick building as “the best single house in the city.”

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George Washington lost his first election.

Before he was president, Washington served Frederick County, Virginia, in the House of Burgesses — the first democratically elected legislative body in what became the United States. He announced his intention to run for office in a 1755 letter to his brother John Augustine Washington. But he received just 40 votes in the ensuing election, losing handily to Hugh West, who received 271 votes; another candidate, Thomas Swearingen, was a close second with 270. Washington kept the poll sheet showing how everybody voted for the rest of his life.

Thanks in part to a beer-heavy campaign, the second time was the charm. Washington received 307 votes in the election taking place on July 24, 1758, enough to defeat Colonel Martin (240), the incumbent West (199), and Captain Swearingen (45).

Ancient Romans used concrete more durable than modern concrete. 

Trajan's Market in Rome
Credit: Adam Eastland Art + Architecture/ Alamy Stock Photo
Author Sarah Anne Lloyd
August 6, 2025

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The ancient Romans are known for many innovations that were ahead of their time, including running water and a rotating dining room. But some of the civilization’s construction work seems ahead of even our time. Case in point: Concrete used in some ancient Roman construction is much stronger than most modern concrete, surviving for millennia and getting stronger, not weaker, over time. Roman concrete endures even in seismically active regions and without reinforcement. The secret ingredient? The sea.

According to a recipe by Roman engineer Marcus Vitruvius from 30 BCE, builders mixed this ancient mortar with a combination of volcanic ash, lime, and seawater, poured it into wooden molds, then soaked it in additional seawater. This created a strong concrete suitable for dramatic structural designs. The material essentially reinforced itself over time, especially in, but not limited to, marine environments. Some 2,000-year-old sea walls, such as those lining the Italian coast, are near-indestructible, and the basic method has also kept walls in the Trajan’s Market archaeological complex standing since the second century CE.

As the ancient concrete ages, moisture dissolves volcanic ash and triggers a chemical reaction that causes small crystals to form. These crystals resemble materials that engineers add to concrete to toughen it up today, but because they develop naturally after the structure is already in place, they’re able to further bind the concrete together, particularly in porous areas that are usually weak.

Roman concrete is also more environmentally friendly than most modern cement — the key active ingredient in today’s concrete — which requires extremely high temperatures to create. The volcanic ash and similar compounds, collectively called pozzolan, bake at much lower temperatures, and the resulting crystals don’t require heat to form.

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The first reinforced concrete bridge in the U.S. is still standing.

Not all modern cement structures are crumbling. The first reinforced concrete bridge in the U.S., despite opening in 1889 in seismically active San Francisco, is still standing strong. The 29-foot Alvord Lake Bridge in Golden Gate Park was built by engineer and architect Ernest L. Ransome with a system of reinforcing steel bars that Ransome himself invented. Just a decade later, the very same system was being used to build 100-foot bridges. The Alvord Lake Bridge survived the highly destructive 1906 San Francisco earthquake with no damage, and has continued to survive every earthquake since.

Edinburgh Castle is built on an extinct volcano.

Edinburgh Castle in Scotland
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Author Sarah Anne Lloyd
August 13, 2025

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Edinburgh Castle, where Scottish monarchs lived for hundreds of years, sits atop an imposing rock outcropping called Castle Rock. Along with the Royal Mile, a hilly thoroughfare gently sloping down one side of the castle, it’s one of Scotland’s biggest tourist attractions. But for a long time, it was just an incredibly convenient rock, from a defensive standpoint, with sheer cliffs along three sides. Ancient people started using it in the Bronze Age, and flattened its top around 900 BCE. 

What those ancient people didn’t know is that hundreds of millions of years prior, that rock was the inside of a volcano. During the Carboniferous Period, roughly 340 million years ago, the volcano went dormant (and eventually extinct) and the magma inside solidified. That left what geologists call a volcanic plug, a rock formation that’s exceptionally sturdy and erosion-resistant — the perfect eventual location for a stronghold. As glaciers shaped the Scottish landscape, the sturdy dolomite plug stood steady as most of the sedimentary rock around it eroded away. Some of the sedimentary rock on the eastern side, now the Royal Mile, was protected by the plug.

Scottish tribes built a massive fortress atop Castle Rock in the late Roman era, which traded hands among the tribes a few times and eventually expanded into a more traditional castle in the Middle Ages. Today, the earliest building still standing dates to the 12th century. 

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The Scottish Crown Jewels were forgotten in Edinburgh Castle for a century.

After Scotland and England united in 1707, the Honours of Scotland, commonly known as the Scottish Crown Jewels, were put away in a pretty logical place — locked in a chest in the Edinburgh Castle crown room — and then forgotten. Over the following century, the Honours became the stuff of legend, and one historian even wrote that “no mortal has been known to have seen them.” Finally, in 1817, King George IV gave the famed writer Sir Walter Scott and a small team permission to search the castle for the jewels. The team had to smash a few padlocks to get into the room and open the chest, but they eventually found the relics wrapped in linen, just as they’d been left.

Letters are called ‘uppercase’ and ‘lowercase’ because of how printers stored them.

Metal printing press letters
Credit: © zlikovec—iStock/Getty Images
Author Bess Lovejoy
June 4, 2026

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When you first learned to write, it may have seemed like the terms “uppercase” and “lowercase” referred simply to the fact that the letters existed in a big or small form in different contexts. But it turns out that the “case” here doesn’t mean something akin to “circumstance” or “condition.” Instead, the word refers to a literal case — the kind typesetters used for storage.

When the printing press came along in Europe in the 15th century, the pieces of movable type — the actual letters and other characters used for printing — were kept in shallow wooden trays, also known as cases. Capital letters were stored in the top case (the upper case), while small letters were stored lower down (the lower case) for more frequent use. Each tray was divided into compartments to hold the type; the lower case also generally held the punctuation marks and other pieces of type that weren’t letters, such as spaces. 

Today, of course, nobody keeps punctuation in a wooden tray beside a hand-operated printing press, but the terms stuck around long after the cases themselves disappeared. Every time you hit the caps lock key or toggle between uppercase and lowercase on your phone, you’re using a bit of printing shop vocabulary that dates back more than 500 years.

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Typesetters used to hold races.

Before typing speed tests existed, typesetters held high-stakes races. In the late 19th century, crowds packed into theaters and dime museums to watch elite compositors — known as Swifts — compete to set tiny metal letters by hand at astonishing speeds. Their performance was measured in ems, a unit based on the width of the type’s capital letter “M.” A typical compositor might set 700 ems an hour, while champions topped 2,000. Some competitions offered cash prizes as high as $1,000 (about $30,000 today) — roughly half a year’s wages for many workers at the time. Among the era’s celebrity racers were William C. Barnes, Alex Duguid, and George “The Velocipede” Arensberg.

People used to vote by voice in colonial America.

Painting depicting a county election, 1854
Credit: The Picture Art Collection/ Alamy Stock Photo
Author Michael Nordine
September 9, 2025

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Just because colonial Americans were subject to taxation without representation doesn’t mean they never voted. Indeed, elections were often held to select local officials and members of colonial legislatures. Rather than paper ballots, however, colonists voted by voice in a practice known as “viva voce.” This being the past and all, voting machines were centuries away from being invented, and paper ballots, despite having been around since ancient times, had yet to be widely adopted in the American colonies. So voters would gather in a public venue and announce their choice out loud for all to hear. 

Like most of the country’s early political traditions, viva voce came to America’s shores from the other side of the pond. It was the norm not only in Britain but also in the Netherlands, German provinces, and Scandinavia, eventually becoming law in six American colonies before also being adopted in Arkansas, Illinois, Kentucky, Missouri, Oregon, and Texas.

The public nature of viva voce was considered a feature rather than a bug because, as English philosopher and politician John Stuart Mill put it, “The voter is under an absolute moral obligation to consider the interest of the public, not his private advantage.” Old habits die hard, and viva voce persisted until the end of the 19th century. Fears that it was conducive to voter intimidation led to the current private ballot system, though not quickly. Five of the 33 U.S. states at the time still used viva voce in the 1850s, and nearly 10% of the votes in the 1860 presidential election won by Abraham Lincoln were cast by voice. The last holdout was Kentucky, which phased out the practice in 1891.

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Three of the original 13 colonies didn’t participate in the first presidential election.

While there was little doubt that George Washington would be America’s first president (despite he himself not being thrilled at the prospect), an election still needed to be held. That contest took place between December 15, 1788, and January 10, 1789, by which point 11 of the 13 colonies had ratified the Constitution and become states. Because North Carolina and Rhode Island had yet to do so, they weren’t involved in the election; the two states were admitted to the U.S. on November 21, 1789, and May 29, 1790, respectively. New York, meanwhile, was involved in a legislative conflict that prevented it from participating as well. Washington won easily, as he had been expected to, and did likewise in the next election — with all of the original 13 colonies plus Kentucky and Vermont taking part.

The Wright brothers’ first flight was shorter than the wingspan of a 747.

Wright Flyer on its first flight
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Author Michael Nordine
June 3, 2026

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Orville and Wilbur Wright changed the course of human history when they took flight on December 17, 1903, in Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. But they didn’t make it very far. Orville’s maiden flight in the single-seat Wright Flyer lasted 12 seconds and covered a distance of 120 feet — shorter than the wingspan of a Boeing 747, which is between 195 and 224 feet depending on the exact model. 

The brothers took turns for their next three attempts in the aircraft (which was also known as the Kitty Hawk, Flyer I, and 1903 Flyer), reaching distances of 175 feet, 200 feet, and 852 feet, respectively, with the last of these flights lasting 59 seconds.

The Wright Flyer was simple in construction by modern standards, with a 12-horsepower engine, 40-foot wingspan, and weight of 605 pounds. The fateful day it took to the sky was the result of four years of planning, research, and development that saw many setbacks along the way — not to mention decades of inspiration. The Wright brothers first became interested in aviation in 1878, when their father gave them a rubber-band-powered toy helicopter that broke after little use but influenced them for the rest of their lives.

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The Wright brothers flipped a coin to see who would fly first.

In one of the more consequential games of chance in history, Wilbur and Orville Wright flipped a coin to see who would test their aircraft first. Wilbur actually won, but his attempt on December 14 led to a crash that required three days of repairs; Orville’s 120-foot journey was his first attempt. It was Wilbur who flew for 852 feet, however, meaning both brothers achieved something special that day in Kitty Hawk. 

‘Teenagers’ didn’t exist until the 20th century.

Teenage couple at soda counter, 1950s
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Author Michael Nordine
May 31, 2026

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For most of human history, you were either a child or an adult. The word “teenager” first entered the lexicon in 1913, appropriately enough, but it wasn’t until decades later that it took on its current significance. The ages spanning 13 to 19 are formative no matter what you call them, but three developments in the mid-20th century had a major influence on the creation of the modern teenager. 

The first was the move toward compulsory education, which got adolescents out of farms and factories and into high school, where they spent more time among their peers. The second was the economic boom that followed World War II, which created a new, highly sought-after demographic for companies and advertisers. And the third was the widespread adoption of cars among American families, which afforded 16-year-olds unprecedented independence.

Because one generation criticizing — and, to a certain extent, fearing — the next is a tale as old as time, not everyone was thrilled about this. In 1953, J. Edgar Hoover’s FBI published a report warning that “the nation can expect an appalling increase in the number of crimes that will be committed by teenagers in the years ahead.” Two years later, President Dwight D. Eisenhower called on Congress to pass legislation that would “assist the states in dealing with this nationwide problem” during his State of the Union address. But as anyone who’s ever been told “OK, boomer,” knows, the generation gap has yet to be bridged more than half a century later.

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The New York Times once published a Teenage Bill of Rights.

As early as 1945, the issue of how to not only deal with but also understand teenagers was confounding parents. In response to this apparent crisis, the Jewish Board of Guardians met to plan a series of studies that resulted in a “Teen-Age Bill of Rights” that The New York Times saw fit to print. The 10 proposed rights were “the right to let childhood be forgotten,” “the right to a ‘say’ about his own life,” “the right to make mistakes, to find out for himself,” “the right to have rules explained, not imposed,” “the right to have fun and companions,” “the right to be at the romantic age,” “the right to a fair chance and opportunity,” “the right to question ideas,” “the right to struggle toward his own philosophy of life,” and “the right to professional help whenever necessary.” All in all, it seems a reasonable list that even the teens of today would likely welcome.

German chocolate cake isn’t named after Germany. 

German chocolate cake
Credit: © LauriPatterson—iStock/Getty Images
Author Bess Lovejoy
May 22, 2026

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When you think of German cuisine, you probably don’t think of coconuts. That’s a little clue that German chocolate cake has nothing to do with one of Europe’s largest (and very nontropical) countries. Indeed, the cake is actually an American invention — Texan, to be specific. 

The dessert is often traced back to 1957, when a recipe for “German Sweet Chocolate Cake” appeared in The Dallas Morning News. German’s Sweet Chocolate was (and is) a specific kind of chocolate manufactured by Baker’s Chocolate and named for its inventor, Samuel German. It comes with sugar already added, unlike most dark baking chocolate. 

In 1957, a homemaker identifying as “Mrs. George Clay of Dallas” submitted the recipe to the newspaper’s “Recipe of the Day” column, describing buttermilk-enriched chocolate cake layers topped with a custardy confection of coconuts and pecans. Some accounts note that a similar recipe also appeared in The Irving News Record in 1956 and had been popular with home cooks even earlier. Yet Mrs. Clay’s recipe was the one picked up by other papers, cementing its place in American dessert history, albeit with a somewhat misleading name.

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Caesar salad was created in Mexico.

Despite the imperial name, this classic dish isn’t a relic of ancient Rome. It was reportedly created in 1924 by Caesar Cardini, an Italian-born restaurateur working in Tijuana, Mexico — a hot spot for Americans during Prohibition.

According to Cardini’s own account, the salad came together out of necessity. During a busy holiday weekend, his restaurant ran low on ingredients, so he improvised with what he had: romaine lettuce, Parmesan, eggs, lemons, olive oil, croutons, and Worcestershire sauce. To make the moment memorable, he had it prepared tableside — a bit of showmanship that helped turn a simple mix into a signature dish.

At first, it was known as Caesar’s salad, named for its creator. But as the recipe spread — and especially after Cardini began marketing his bottled dressing in the 1930s — the possessive apostrophe quietly vanished. By the 1940s, Caesar salad had become a fixture on menus around the world.

The practice of tipping dates back to the Middle Ages.

Engraving of servant at a meal
Credit: Classic Image/ Alamy Stock Photo
Author Bess Lovejoy
May 31, 2026

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Though it’s often seen as a quintessentially American custom today, tipping has its roots in the feudal societies of medieval Europe. In the Middle Ages, wealthy landowners occasionally gave small sums of money to their servants or laborers for extra effort or good service. This paternalistic gesture later evolved into a more formal custom: By the Tudor era, guests at aristocratic households were expected to offer “vails” to the household staff at the end of their stay. These payments soon became obligatory — and widely resented by guests.

In the 19th century, wealthy Americans who traveled in Europe began to mimic the custom back home, bringing tipping to the U.S. just as an influx of poor European immigrants, familiar with the practice, were arriving. But many people viewed tipping as deeply un-American — a holdover from the rigid class systems of Europe. Critics called it servile, corrupting, and even a threat to democracy.

Tipping took hold in the U.S. after the Civil War, when newly freed Black Americans entered the workforce with limited options. Employers in restaurants and railroads hired them but refused to pay a living wage, requiring them to rely on tips instead. The Pullman Company, which operated luxury railcars, institutionalized the practice by hiring Black porters at meager wages, assuming passengers would make up the difference.

Though some states banned tipping in the early 20th century, the laws were eventually repealed. Then in 1938, when the Fair Labor Standards Act established a federal minimum wage, restaurant workers were excluded — effectively enshrining tipping into law.

Ironically, while Americans today are among the world’s most generous tippers, many European countries have moved away from the practice entirely. In places such as France, service charges are included by law. Meanwhile, in the U.S., tipping remains both a standard in many establishments and a source of continued debate over fairness and labor rights.

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“Tip” is not an acronym.

Despite the popular belief that “tip” stands for “To Insure Promptness” (or “Performance” or “Prompt Service”), the word is not an acronym at all. Its roots lie not in the initials of a quaint coffeehouse sign, but in the slang of 18th-century criminals. Around the early 1700s, “to tip” was used by petty thieves and hustlers to mean “to give” or “to share,” and it slipped into mainstream English from there. The earliest known example of “tip” as a verb comes from the 1707 play The Beaux’ Stratagem, which includes the line, “Then I, Sir, tips me the Verger with half a Crown.” By 1755, the word “tip” was also recorded as a noun. The acronym theory — charming though it may be — is a classic case of folk etymology. Besides, tipping often happens after service, not before, making the idea of “insuring promptness” a nonstarter.  

The cardigan was a result of the Crimean War. 

Charge of the Light Brigade
Credit: © Chronicle/Alamy
Author Bess Lovejoy
May 22, 2026

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In the mid-19th century, a disastrous cavalry charge gave the world one of its coziest wardrobe staples. 

The cardigan sweater takes its name from James Thomas Brudenell, 7th Earl of Cardigan, a British army officer who commanded the Light Brigade during the Crimean War — most famously at the Charge of the Light Brigade, a catastrophic assault brought on by muddled orders and poor communication.

The charge, launched at the Battle of Balaklava in October 1854, sent British cavalry straight into heavy Russian artillery fire. The results (heavy losses, but also the destruction of a Russian battery) became a symbol of both extraordinary bravery and military blunder. The event was immortalized in Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s famous poem “The Charge of the Light Brigade.” Cardigan himself emerged physically unscathed and, somewhat improbably, became a national celebrity.

That celebrity helped turn his preferred knitwear into a fashion trend. According to contemporary accounts, the earl was frequently seen wearing a collarless, button-front wool jacket, which was practical for the bitter Crimean cold. It’s often said he either popularized or helped develop the garment for his troops, and when Cardigan returned to Britain, the public’s fascination with the “hero” of Balaklava extended to his clothing. 

The snug sweater became known as a “cardigan,” cementing the earl’s name in everyday language — even as his reputation as a commander remained deeply controversial. 

Interestingly, the word “cardigan” has military connections that go even farther back. “Cardigan” is a place name in Wales, an Anglicization of the Welsh “Ceredigion,” which literally means “Ceredig’s land.” Ceredig was a legendary chieftain of North Britain who is said to have pushed back an Irish invasion of Wales in the fifth century CE and received the aforementioned land as a reward. In other words, every time you button up a cardigan, you’re wrapping yourself in layers of military history.

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The Crimean War also gave birth to another fashion term.

The Crimean War didn’t just give us the cardigan — it led to another fashion staple, the raglan. The term comes from FitzRoy James Henry Somerset, 1st Baron Raglan, whose ambiguous orders triggered the disastrous Charge of the Light Brigade. As is the case for many figures from the conflict, Raglan’s military reputation is mixed at best; he was widely criticized for poor leadership during a campaign plagued by confusion, supply shortages, and brutal winter conditions.

Yet his name endured in a more practical context. Around the time of the war, a coat associated with Raglan featured a distinctive sleeve design that extended in one piece from underarm to collar, rather than being sewn at the shoulder. The looser cut offered greater mobility — and may have been especially useful for Raglan, who had lost an arm years earlier at the Battle of Waterloo. By the mid-1850s, the “raglan sleeve” had entered the fashion lexicon in Britain. Like the cardigan, it’s a small, wearable reminder of a war usually better known for its blunders.

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