Labyrinths of Paris: The Dead Beneath the Lights

...I remember the labyrinths of Paris vividly. A city beautiful yet morbidly foreboding in structure and stylization; A dark and damp city, so unlike everything above the ground in France. The chance to discover it came a few days into my first overseas stay when my cousin said she had something exciting planned, but wouldn’t tell me what it was. Then around nine at night three men showed up wearing backpacks and heavy clothes. I, of course, didn’t know any of them or where we were headed, but my cousin Sophie did so I figured it was all right. The four of them stood around speaking French at a pace only a native of the language can, and I stood off to the side still waiting to get some word on what was going on. Finally Sophie turned to me and let me in on it all.
...We were taking a tour of the city’s underground passageways. They were closed off to the public and illegal to enter so we had to break in at night. Originally she had intended on joining us as well, but something had come up and so I was on my own. I wondered how the other three men felt about having a teenager tag along with them as they broke the law, but they were all friendly enough so I guessed they didn’t care. Only one of them spoke any English at all and since my French was less than adequate, we decided that he would handle any necessary interpretation. A few more muddled words of French, and out the door we went.
...I knew right away that we were traveling a fair distance when the Parisian I had figured to be the leader of the group directed me to a car parked outside. It was of course one of the European type cars in which one cannot ride if they weight more than 150 pounds or are over five and a half feet in height, so I certainly was not relishing the idea of cramming myself into it with three other big guys. To my relief however the other two walked up to a separate car.
We arrived at our destination that appeared to be the empty parking lot of an abandoned train depot. The men loaded up supplies from the back of the two cars and we set out down a nearby tunnel. Using a hole chiseled out of concrete beside the abandoned tram rail, my companions and I were engulfed into the partly flooded belly of the Parisian underground. The English speaker told me that this was his first time entering the catacombs. I asked him why they were referred to as such, but he just smiled and nodded. The simplicity of the action made me feel like he wasn’t telling me something, but I simply let it go and instead took in my surroundings.
...The first section of the tunnels had very deep water throughout. We spent almost two silent hours sloshing up to our necks through the murky stagnation of a seemingly endless corridor. The only noise was the echo of displaced water and the occasional heavy breath or two. Farther into the tunnel, the water became shallower and it was faster going. But my legs were already aching from the strain of walking through high water. We walked on and on until my legs hurt miserably and my clothes were completely dry again.
...Sometime around what I guess was one am, we entered an open space resembling a small-town jail with one big central area and three smaller ones. Each space had a slab resembling a bed and some scattered furniture. There we stopped for a few hours and between the four of us finished off a loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, a bottle of whisky, half a bottle of red wine, and at least ten beers. The latter had been brought along as a courtesy to the one American among them, but one of the Parisians discovered he had a taste for it and we matched can for can. Once we had finished our dinner I was pretty trashed, and even though Europeans are known for handling their liquor, I noticed that so were they. The surly leader of our pack and the one with the map made jokes back and forth about all the people who got lost and died in the maze we were about to enter. He then glanced at the map, studied if for a moment, turned it over, studied it again, and finally turned it back over again. Looking pleased with what he saw this time he nodded and set out, us following behind. I kind of hoped the whole map thing was just another joke.
...Hazy. I remember that the hallways looked hazy and eternal. We walked forever. As drunk as I was I couldn’t focus on much of anything, so the trek became a repetition of the same stone slab and pile of dirt over and over. The hall’s direction went left, right, right, duck under, left, rise up, left, right, on and on until blinded by the repetition of it all, I stopped trying to focus. I soon forgot I was even walking, my feet moving on autopilot and my eyes simply floating in the ether. My head was spinning and I felt as if I was falling.
...Then my body caught up to my mind.
...Breeze was rushing by me. My stomach took flight and was hovering in mid air. Then I felt pain.
...My eyes, body and mind all elsewhere, I had failed to notice that the men in front of me had stopped short having come upon something in the way. That something was a sort of pit full of rocky objects, and I had fallen directly into it. Lucky for me it was only about three feet deep as it was mostly filled by debris, but the landing was still hard enough to knock the wind out of me. I struggled with the uneven surface I was lying on to try and get a good footing , but things kept shifting beneath me, the best I was able to manage was to sit up.
...I saw the three figures of my companions standing in the dim light above me, and then next thing I knew the Map Reader had jumped down beside me and was offering his hand. Suddenly feeling foolish I took it and stood somewhat uneasily. Another hand reached down and the Surly Parisian helped haul me out of the pit completely. Once on the ledge above I brushed myself off and looked back to get a better view of what it was I had fallen into.
...It was a pit of human bodies. Well, bones at least. The ‘rocks’ that I had landed on were skulls, and all around I saw ribs, joints, arms, fingers, you name it. For a moment I wondered if it was a trap, and these were bodies of unsuspecting dwellers of the Paris underground. Then realizing the sheer number of skeletons it would have taken to fill the large basin I highly doubted it. About to ask one of my guides about the graveyard, I noticed that they were already moving on, and so I hurried to catch back up.
...On the trek out of the labyrinth I asked the Beer Drinker if he knew what it was I had fallen into. As we traveled he recounted to me the story of the French Revolution, how too many nameless had died and so instead of proper burials most the bodies were simply dumped underground and forgotten. It was the same when large plagues hit Europe and a place was needed to store the infested bodies. Even more bodies were left in the caverns when Hitler’s army used them (in part) as an operations base and left behind those they executed. By the time we had come back to where we started from so many hours before I had learned more about the seedier side of French history than my brief schooling had ever provided. Stepping back out into the light of early morning and breathing the air of the living again felt great, and I gave a hearty laugh. The others looked at me and I just shrugged. The city of love was built atop a catacomb of death and disease..
and horror.
...“Put that in the travel brochure.” I said quietly, and again chuckled.
__

...Other than the adventure in the catacombs I remember very little else about the city of Paris itself from my first trip there. My cousin’s studio apartment makes up the bulk of it. I would sit in there for hours smoking hash and listening to Joni Mitchell’s “Blue” for company. The album and I both agreed that we missed America horribly. But I was more of a East Coast soul, while she couldn’t get over the beaches of California. Regardless, it helped pass time in the day while Sophie was asleep. She ran a charity ambulance for the homeless and spent every night out on the streets, so could only find time for rest in daylight hours. I asked her if I could go with her to work one night. I thought it would be fascinating, but she thought it would be irresponsible on her part to put me in any danger.
...The next night she had off so we went to a covert hash bar in the seedier part of the city where I spent eight hours getting high and she scored some Ecstasy. ...That was a good night. At least I wasn’t by myself.

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Tags:

adventure, memory, paris and travel