Ahh, Paris, the City of Light, the city of L'amour, home to The Eiffel Tower, The Louvre, Notre Dame and The Champs Elysees. Home to artists, writers and philosopher throughout the centuries, inspiration for the lovers, the dreamers and me.
But there is another side to Paris, a dark side, a seamy side, a side that can chill you to your bones or make you wish you had a gas mask. This side of Paris is not visible to the casual observer but is hidden away, deep in the bowels of the earth, where only those who are strong of spirit, not to mention strong of stomach, dare to tread. On my recent trip to Paris, with Jai Faim and her parents, I decided that I am such a person so I decided to step off, or rather under, the beaten track and experience life below Paris.
My first tour took me to a doorway on a street in the 4th Arrondisement, south of the river. It would've appeared like any other door except for the line of morbid tourists with nothing better to do on a Saturday than go into the depths of the earth and look at ceturies old bones. I had expected lank haired goths in black T-shirts and eye make up but was instead confronted with well dressed tourists and the occasional local. It takes all types I suppose.
The Catacombs in Paris were formed when the powers that be in the 18th century decided that dead people were taking up entirely too much room in the cemetaries around the city. In their wisdom they decided to dig up millions of these unfortunate souls from thier less than eternal rest and store them in a disused quarry, far beneath the streets of Paris. Some years later, a whole different set of powers that be decided that these remains were not doing anyone any good just sitting under the earth, so they decided to charge people to go down into the dim quiet depths and look at the piles of bones which had been neatly, and in cases artistically, arranged.
Being a good tourist, I positioned myself at the end of the queue and we all shuffled forward silently like mourners at a funeral before paying and heading down a spiral staircase which led us below the street, below the sewers and even below the subway system. From there it was a walk through a low ceilinged tunnel where I found myself alone in the quiet and the gloom. If it wasn't for the fact that I knew there were pushy Germans in front of me and loud Americans behind, I could've thought I was the only one down there. Not a comforting thought.
Eventually I came to a doorway that bore the sign; 'Warning, you are now entering the empire of the dead,' or words to that effect. I suppose this sign was originally intended to deter people, now it just makes for a nice photo opportunity. I took a deep breath and passed through the doorway where I encountered the piles of literally millions of bones, piled chest high and ten feet deep back to the wall in tunnels that stretch for 1.7 kilometres. I don't need to tell you that that's a lot of bones, even though I just did. It would be a veritable dream come true for the Diggingest Dog.
I walked around, taking in the bones of nameless millions of Parisians, including, it's believed, Marie Antoinette. It's kind of fitting that she's possibly stacked down here with the riff-raff, to be gawked at by anyone with a few Euro to spare. I thought maybe we could do something similar in Melbourne, only with all celebrities. There could be a whole section devoted to reality TV contestants, Slim Dusty could be propped up at a bar with no beer in his hand and there could be a special shrine for Eddie McGuire. 'Here lies Ed, boned at last.'
It's just an idea.
One thing I didn't expect was to be asked to open my bag when I climbed back up a different spiral staircase. I undid by bag and pulled out my camera, jacket, map and assorted paraphernalia and he appeared satisfied.
'Do people really steal the bones?' I asked as I stuffed my junk back in.
'Oh yeah,' he said. The two skulls on the table behind him seemed to be testament to this, and I realised the necessity for the security guard I saw sitting on a chair in the darkness below. Actually I didn't see him, I heard him. He was snoring loud enough to wake the dead.
The following day I headed out to Montmarte with Jai Faim and her parents for a morning of reliving scenes from Amelie. Unfortunately the rain started and we ended spending most of the time sheltered in The Sacre Couer, where people thought that traipsing through a service taking photographs was a perfectly reasonable thing to do. I had thought that the rain would spoil my planned tour for the afternoon but when I arrived at les Tour de egouts, I discovered that it was still a goer. So down I went again, this time into the Paris sewer systems. That's right, from the interred to the turd, from the deceased to the defecated, from the passed on to the passed through, it was time to find out whether a Frenchman's shit really does stink.
The short answer is yes. Actually that's the only answer. Of course there is waste water and rain water and all sorts of other things down there as well, so it's not overwhelming, but there's a definite miasma of nose hair curling wrongness. Still, it's bearable.
The Tour de Egouts is basically an underground museum for people who have too much time on their hands, are interested in the workings of a large sewer system or who are hiding from the law. All sorts of displays are set up showing the development of the city and the sewer system, from a stinky town where people had to watch their step to avoid the waste that had been thrown in the streets to a thriving metropolis where people have to pay to see waste. I was treated to information on how the sewers were built, how they are maintained and how they inspired sections of Victor Hugo's Les Miserables. By far the most horribly fascinating part of the tour however is the large canal full of flowing brown water down the centre of the exhibits.
This ain't Willy Wonka's magic river of chocolate!
It's hard not to peer into this free flowing filth and I found myself wondering if anyone on the tour has ever elbowed their friend in the ribs, pointed and said: 'Hey look, I think that one's mine. I know because I had corn last night.' Probably not. I am pretty sure I saw a whole strawberry float past though and had to wonder where that came from.
Like any other museum of note, this one of course had a gift shop where you could buy a toy stuffed rat. I can imagine the lucky kid who gets this present as a souvenir.
'Here honey, I bought you a rat from the Paris sewer.'
'Gee thanks, but I would have rather had some Chanel no 5.' Actually you have to be careful about that too. Being in the sewers gives a whole new meaning to Eau de Toilette.
If you take in the time spent on the subways, the majority of my weekend in Paris was spent below the ground, looking at bones, human waste and advertising that is abundant on trains and in the stations, and let me tell you there is only so much advertising one man can take. With all this in mind, I've decided to end this blog on a more innocent and sweet note, so here's a picture of a puppy in a Christmas hat.
Later.
J
2 comments:
I think your blog stinks...of funny ramblings
Nice one big guy. Peeeeuuwwww!
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