Sunday, March 01, 2026

What are some historical sites related to the Iliad that can be visited, such as Troy?

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Start with the catalogue of ships (Iliad 2:494-759). Many of the places which are listed there still exist (at least as ruins) and can be visited). I will point just to the most remarkable ones (besides Troy which you already mentioned):

Mycenae, Agamemnon’s city. Mycenae is an excavated city of the bronze age, with a wonderful museum. It still looks like it looked in Agamemnon’s times.

Tiryns, another well-preserved bronze age city. Tiryns belonged to Argolis where Diomedes was king, one the the Achaian’s best fighters.

Near Pylos, you find the palace of king Nestor. There is his throne room, with the foundations of his throne, of a large circular fireplace and of a gully for libations.

And now, the best of all: there is the bathtub where Telemachos bathed, as written in the Odyssey:

In the museum of Pylos you find a helmet of boar tusks, like Odysseus wore it:

If you ever wondered how Helen might have looked - maybe like this lady from the archeological museum of Mycenae:

People were fascinated by Catherine of Valois’ completely intact body

When the Queen of England, Catherine of Valois, died in 1437, she was quickly buried in an airtight coffin. And when the lid accidentally slid off during repair works to the tomb over two centuries later, her mummified remains were revealed to the workers.

Catherine, as it turns out, was unusually well-preserved. A beautiful woman in life, she remained a beautiful woman in death, her skin so well-kept her cheeks still blushed.

People were fascinated by Catherine of Valois’ completely intact body. They could not believe it. Some saw it as some sort of special favor of God, or even as a sign of divinity.

One man — the notorious philanderer and diarist Samuel Pepys — was particularly intrigued. He was a man of rather loose morals, a man no maid could ever save herself from. In fact his diaries are full of the most nasty things one could think of:

"coming up suddenly, did find me imbracing the girl con [with] my hand sub [under] su [her] coats; and endeed I was with my main [hand] in her cunny. I was at a wonderful loss upon it and the girl also...."

That’s Pepys describing his wife running in on him with his hand up the maid’s dress… and, up the maid. On his birthday in 1667, Pepys decided maids, neighbor women and shopkeepers daughters weren’t enough for his appetites. He wanted to kiss a queen. So he went to see the tomb of Catherine of Valois:

“I to the Abbey went, and by favour did see the body of Queen Catherine of Valois, and had the upper part of the body in my hands, and I did kiss her mouth, reflecting upon it I did kiss a Queen: and this my birthday and I thirty-six years old and I did kiss a Queen.”

Samuel Pepys broke into a tomb and kissed the cold dead lips of a beautiful queen that had died two centuries prior. Catherine of Valois’ suffering did not end here — she continued to be displayed like a curiosity until finally Queen Victoria had the lid of the coffin closed off and reburied her long-dead ancestor.

Brilliance Cannot Be Enslaved

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Around 1710, a boy was born in West Africa. At 14, slave traders kidnapped him and shipped him to America. For the next 66 years, Thomas Fuller lived enslaved on a Virginia farm—never learning to read, never learning to write, never stepping foot in a classroom.

But Thomas had a gift that couldn't be stolen.

When he was 70, two men from Pennsylvania heard rumors about an enslaved man who could perform mathematical calculations that seemed impossible. Skeptical, William Hartshorne and Samuel Coates traveled to Virginia to test him themselves.

What happened next was witnessed and documented by Benjamin Rush—a Founding Father who signed the Declaration of Independence.

They asked Thomas three questions.

Question 1: "How many seconds are in a year and a half?"

Thomas closed his eyes for two minutes. Then answered: "47,304,000."

He was right.

Question 2: "How many seconds has a man lived who is 70 years, 17 days, and 12 hours old?"

This requires calculating leap years, regular years, days, and hours—then converting everything to seconds. With paper and pen, this takes at least 15 minutes.

Thomas answered in 90 seconds: "2,210,500,800."

One of the men, frantically scribbling on paper, told Thomas he was wrong.

Thomas replied calmly: "Stop, massa, you forget the leap year."

When they corrected their math for leap years, it matched Thomas's answer perfectly.

Question 3: "If a farmer has 6 sows, and each has 6 female pigs the first year, and they all increase the same way for 8 years—how many sows total?"

This is exponential growth—advanced math that challenges students today even with calculators.

In ten minutes, Thomas answered: "34,588,806."

Perfect again.

The men were stunned.

Here was someone who'd never been taught mathematics, who couldn't read numbers on a page, who'd spent nearly 70 years doing backbreaking labor under enslavement—and he could outperform university-trained scholars using only his mind.

When one gentleman remarked that it was tragic Thomas never received formal education, Thomas responded with words that reveal everything:

"No, massa, it is best I had no learning, for many learned men be great fools."

Think about that.

Thomas understood his own brilliance. He knew that formal education and intelligence aren't the same thing. Despite everything taken from him, he preserved his dignity and sense of self.

Thomas Fuller died in 1790 at age 80—still enslaved, never freed.

But his story became crucial evidence. Dr. Benjamin Rush and other abolitionists used Thomas as living proof against the lies that justified slavery—the false claims that African people were intellectually inferior.

Here was undeniable truth: a man kidnapped from Africa, denied all education, worked to exhaustion for 66 years—yet possessing mathematical abilities that matched the greatest minds of his era.

His genius couldn't be explained away.

Thomas Fuller's mind was a gift that slavery tried to bury but couldn't hide.

We remember him for what he represents: the countless brilliant minds stolen by slavery. The genius that persisted despite every attempt to destroy it. The human potential that flourished even in chains.

How many other Thomas Fullers were there?

How many mathematicians, scientists, inventors, and artists were kidnapped from Africa and lost to history before anyone knew their names?

We'll never know the full answer.

But we know there was at least one.

Thomas Fuller (1710–1790) The Virginia Calculator Mathematical genius Living proof that brilliance cannot be enslaved—even when the body is.

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The artist who walked away when success became destructive, and returned only when it felt right

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Agnetha Fältskog was born on April 5, 1950, in Jönköping, Sweden. Her story would become one of pop music’s most familiar—and most quietly complicated.

At seventeen, she wrote her first hit, “Jag var sÃ¥ kär,” on a bus ride home from work. it became a national success in Sweden, launching a solo career before most of her peers had even finished school. By 1968, her debut album confirmed what listeners already sensed: her voice was unusually clear, controlled, and emotionally direct.

In the early 1970s, her life merged with something much larger. She married Björn Ulvaeus in 1971, and together with Benny Andersson and Anni-Frid Lyngstad, they formed ABBA. When “Waterloo” won Eurovision in 1974, their lives accelerated beyond anything they could have imagined. Hits followed in rapid succession—“Dancing Queen,” “Mamma Mia,” and “The Winner Takes It All”. Agnetha’s voice became central to the band’s identity: bright yet fragile, capable of carrying both celebration and regret at the same time.

Behind the success, the pressure was constant. By 1980, both couples in ABBA had divorced. Agnetha struggled with anxiety and an intense fear of flying, making touring feel more exhausting than exhilarating. When ABBA recorded their final sessions in 1982, there was no grand farewell announcement; the group simply stopped.

She continued briefly as a solo artist, releasing successful albums like Wrap Your Arms Around Me in 1983 and Eyes of a Woman in 1985. Then, she stepped away. By the late 1980s, she withdrew almost completely from public life, moving to a remote island in Sweden. Fame, stalking incidents, and stage fright had made visibility feel unsafe. For nearly twenty years, she refused interviews and reunion offers; silence became her form of control.

In 2004, she returned quietly with My Colouring Book, her first album in seventeen years. It was intimate and restrained—a reminder of her talent rather than a massive comeback. In 2013, her album A topped charts across Europe, proving that neither her voice nor her audience had disappeared.

In 2021, ABBA finally reunited for Voyage, their first album in forty years. Using digital avatars based on their 1979 appearances, the band launched a groundbreaking concert residency in London. Agnetha participated on her own terms, present without surrendering herself to the machinery of fame.

Now in her mid-seventies, Agnetha Fältskog represents more than pop nostalgia. She represents the artist who walked away when success became destructive, who chose privacy over permanence, and who returned only when it felt right. She became one of the most recognizable voices in the world, yet she had the courage to step back when the cost was too high. Decades later, her quiet return shows that survival, restraint, and self-care can be their own kind of triumph.

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The woman who ran faster than death itself

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They buried her alive at 19. Eight years later, she stood on a podium and proved death wrong.

Chicago, 1928.

A high school teacher watches a teenage girl sprint for a departing train. She's so fast, he literally times her the next day with a stopwatch.

"Betty," he says, "you need to compete."

She'd never raced. Didn't even know girls could run track.

Four months later, Betty Robinson became the youngest woman to ever win Olympic gold in the 100 meters. She was 16 years old.

Chicago threw her a parade. 20,000 people lined the streets. Diamond rings. Newspaper headlines. America's golden girl.

Then came the plane crash.

June 28, 1931. The engine died mid-flight. Betty's plane dropped into a marshy field outside Chicago. When rescuers found her, she wasn't breathing.

Broken leg in three places. Shattered arm. Eight-inch gash across her skull.

They put her in a car trunk and drove to the funeral home.

The undertaker noticed something. A breath. Barely there, but enough.

Betty woke up seven weeks later to devastating news: You'll never run again.

Metal pins. Uneven legs. Wheelchair. Two years just to walk.

She watched the 1932 Olympics from home, knowing she should've been there defending her title.

Most athletes would've quit.

Betty Robinson started crawling. Then walking. Then jogging.

There was one problem: her knee couldn't bend enough for a sprinter's crouch. But relay runners start standing up.

By 1936, against every medical prediction, she made the U.S. Olympic team for Berlin.

Getting there nearly bankrupted her family. The Depression had taken everything. Medical bills piled up. The women's team wasn't funded.

She sold her medals, her ribbons, everything—except the gold from 1928. She worked as a secretary, saved every cent, and barely scraped together enough.

In Berlin, in the 4x100 relay final, Germany was dominating. World record pace.

Then, in one heartbeat, Germany's anchor dropped the baton.

It bounced on the track.

America's Helen Stephens blazed past.

Gold medal.

Betty Robinson—declared dead five years earlier—stood on an Olympic podium for the second time.

Her daughter said it best: "The first medal was easier. The second one, she had to work her tail off for."

Betty retired at 24. She kept both medals in a candy box in her closet. Never displayed them. Rarely talked about it.

In 1996, at 84 years old, she carried the Olympic torch for Atlanta. Frail but fierce. Refused help from anyone.

She died in 1999, having done what almost no one in history has done.

Betty Robinson didn't just survive.

She didn't just recover.

She came back from death itself—and won.

That's not a comeback.

That's a resurrection.

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