Most would be familiar with the division of the city of Paris into the Left Bank and Right Bank of the river Seine: Rive Gauche and Rive Droit as the French will call it.
What is not so apparent is that the city also has a topside and one that is below ground. On the top side are what the world is familiar with: the river, the churches, THE towering Tower of Eiffel. The metropolis that is Paris. But somewhere in the city, below the road and the metro subway, there exist another 'city' of the dead, the necropolis of Paris.
After heading into the city from the airport, and checking into the hostel, I headed out to the Paris Catacomb. By the time I reached the destination station, it was still within an hour of the day's openning time. But the queue on that Sunday morning had already snaked around the block. Goes to show I am not the only one with a morbid interest in the subject of death.
The queue was moving on slowly. The catacomb has rule on how many visitor are allowed into the catacomb at any one time. But most in the line were in a jolly good mood, and so the time on the queue passed quite quickly, and I was finally at the head of the queue. Ahead of me was a young couple dressed for the occassion, in cosplay style gothic costume.
Right before the ticketing counter was a warning notice: persons with certain medical condition are advise against entering, that there will be a long climb down (and then up) during the tour, that the exit will be streets away from the entrance, and that the temperature below may drop a notch or two. I paid up and went pass a narrow turnstile.
Most spiralling stairs like this in Europe would lead you up a church tower. This one, goes down, deep under the city. The tourist pick their way down in anticipation, probably expecting the catacomb to appear right at the bottom of the stairs. But the 'staff' at the catacomb has other idea. They would rather ease the visitor in.
What was at the end of the trip down from streetlevel was bright rooms of exhibits. They were about geology (what were the rocks like around the area, how were they formed from pre-historic times), engineering and architecture (how the tunnels and chambers were dugged up and supported.) And of course, the history, of why the catacomb came about. Briefly, back in the 19th century, as Paris expanded, it ran out of space for graveyards. And back in those days, cremating the body was not an option. So, the city folks decided that the skeletal body dugged up from the 'over-populated' graveyards had to be moved out, gathered and stored somewhere in the city. Apparently, they decided that the only way is down.
As expected, most of the visitor gave the exhibit a cusory look. The main attractions are deeper down the tunnels. And the notice posted at the entrance wasn't bullshitting, the temperature does drop as we went deeper down.
The mood amongst the visitors grew in anticipation as the sign appear warning against flash photography. And as we turn the corner, the bones appeared.
Piles upon piles of them. I can imagine how gruesome the task of digging up the whole graveyard was.
The sight turns the visitors solemn, but only for a little while. It doesn't take long for us to realise it wasn't as scary as we have expected. The bones were neatly piled up, and they have a sheen to it, as if vanish were painted on. Camera came out and visitors were taking pictures with the long-departed. I saw a few Asian gals doing the pose with the crooked neck and the V sign with their index and middle fingers, the one you see them doing in those pink cute photo-taking booth.
Amongst the younger visitors, solemn turned to a bit rowdy. Skeleton jokes were being exchanged. This prompt the staff to make their appearance. One or two of them have to take their eyes off their book, rosed from their chair and came over to warn against noise and flash photography. I guess, theirs is one job you wouldn't want to work over-time.
As we progress down the tunnel, things start to get monotounous. I guess there is just so many way you can arrange a pile of bones. The tunnel were also getting damper, with water dripping down from some of the ceiling. I guess there may some pipes right above us, and they were leaking. It's one thing if they are water pipes, but quite another if they are sewerage.
Another long flight of spiral stairs lead us up to streetlevel. The exit is a non-descripit door. A souvenir shop greeted those who just emerged from the catacomb across the street. It was the sunny right outside, and I can sense my pupils shrinking rapidly to adapt to the sudden change in lighting.
The exit really is a few street away from the entrance. As I made my way back to the station, I settled for lunch at a Chinese restaurant. Just before I tucked into the meal, I remember that I really should give my hand a good wash first, after my trip down in the catacomb.I thought I have wash my hand of the catacomb. Well, maybe there are good reasons why there are many who would not consider visiting a place such as the catacomb. They believe the dead should be left in peace. That if you do disturb that peace, maybe, just maybe, something will follow you from the crypt. Call it a spirit, call it a curse. As I made my way east on the Orient Express, I realize maybe a mild curse did follow me out from below Paris. Little things went wrong during the trip, and I seem to be place in a position to help some strangers out, so as to cast off that curse.
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