Paris Catacombs - The Illegal Tour
Someone once said the best things in life are either immoral, illegal, or make you fat. Guess what? The Catacombs of Paris fit the bill perfectly. Here, the rules of engagement are simple: don’t tell anyone where you entered or where you’ll exit, use a pseudonym, and be nice to everyone (or you might find yourself choking on a smoke bomb). Oh, and for the love of all things sacred, don’t steal a skull — you could end up in jail. It’s all very dramatic.
We’re now 300 km underground, wading through water so clean, it’s supposed to cleanse your past-life sins. Sure, I doubt it. The unofficial guide says it with such sincerity, but I’m more concerned about the eerie silence that’s starting to get under my skin. It’s not the usual “birdsong in the distance” kind of silence. No, this one is pure madness. Your heartbeat echoes like a drum, blood rushes through your veins like a constant reminder of your own mortality, and soon, you can hear your tendons creak, muscles slide over bones, and the occasional organ reminding you it’s still working. It's so quiet that it could make you start hearing things. I heard astronauts go mad from this kind of silence. I’m not there yet, but it's only a matter of time.
At least I’m not alone. My companions are here, sharing in the glory of this unbearable silence. F. swears she can hear my heart beating. And I guess that’s what happens when every word spoken feels like it carries weight, as if we’re all in a constant state of importance. Every voice becomes a treasure, and even the silence becomes a kind of art.
Speaking of art, this labyrinth isn’t just about eerie silence and water tunnels; it’s an underground gallery. Murals, sculptures, gargoyles, mosaics — the works. The tunnels aren’t just a tomb; they’re a city under construction or a relic of some forgotten empire. A strange sort of living art. And then we stumble upon the “cinema lounge” — murals of Pulp Fiction, Taxi Driver, and Ghostbusters. Yes, we’ve really hit the cultural jackpot down here. We’re sitting in an amphitheater made of stones, getting ready to watch something profoundly important, no doubt.
Then there’s the Flower Room — a place so drenched in melancholy you might think it’s where suicides are inspired. But, of course, before you take the plunge, you could always stop by the Roxy Bar for a drink. After all, why make decisions too quickly? If that doesn’t appeal to you, you can always chill at The Beach Lounge, or, if you’re feeling a bit more homicidal, visit The Candelabra Room for some murder fantasies. It’s an endless list of options, really.
After a much-needed break, our guide pulls out a fondue pot and wine from his Mary Poppins-like bag, complete with little candles for ambiance. We’re dining with the dead, listening to blues, and I can’t help but smile. It’s all too absurd. Above us, the world continues to dance to Saturday Night Fever, blissfully unaware of the forgotten city beneath their feet.
Finally, we reach the third level. A throne made entirely of human bones. Death is everywhere, and yet it’s oddly peaceful. In fact, I’m more terrified of living than I am of death. What does that say about me? Nothing good, probably. But that’s the thing: surrounded by bones, I start to wonder, what really makes us alive? Desire. Desire is the force that moves us, creates, destroys, kills. Desire drives us to eat each other, to consume.
Yes, men are cannibals. They consume each other physically, emotionally, politically — it’s all a great big feast. The Sun consumes its own energy, the Moon leeches off Earth, and the cycle continues. We eat, we get eaten. It’s a delightful, existential buffet.
And then, just as quickly as we descended, we begin our exit, crawling through utility tunnels, climbing ladders, emerging from the manhole like confused groundhogs. The world has no idea what just happened beneath its feet. But I do. And when I wake up, I’ll be different. Not better, not worse, just different.
This was my happiest memory: six of us stumbling under Paris, to the sounds of communist anthems, in complete and utter oblivion. And when I wake up, I’ll be different.
