A CHILLING DAY IN THE CATACOMBS

Posted on October 26, 2016

Paris is an enchanting city. Its sidewalk cafes, twinkling lights and elegant bridges evoke feelings of romance and whimsy. But there is a darker side to City of Light, found far below its blue skies and cobblestone streets. The catacombs of Paris elicit very different emotions in those who dare to visit.

On my three prior trips to Paris, I tackled all the must-sees. So on my 4th visit there last April, I wanted to explore a different side of the city. Below is a recount of my chilling day in the catacombs.

The catacombs of Paris, which stretch a total of 800 meters, serve as an underground tomb for over 6 million souls. By the 18^th century, the overrun cemeteries posed significant health risks to the public forcing city officials to relocate the remains of the dead. The empty underground quarries, once filled with limestone, were the ideal location to house the deceased. Beginning in 1786, remains were transferred from various cemeteries to the ossuary beneath Paris. From the onset, the catacombs and the millions of bones lining its walls, attracted curious visitors into its depths.

My friend Drea and I arrived at the entrance near Place Denfert-Rochereau feeling slightly unnerved and unsure of what to expect. The tension continued to build throughout our 3 hour wait, a standard duration given that only 200 visitors are allowed into the catacombs at a time. We finally reached the entrance, purchased our tickets and strangely found ourselves alone as we began our descent.

Down a dizzying spiral staircase we went, around and around the 130 steps for what felt like an eternity. We finally reached the bottom and were spit out into the first chamber. No bones there, only placards detailing the geological history of the quarry dating back over 45 million years. After a series of similar rooms, we entered a long stone corridor. It was damp, dark and cool. An earthy, musty smell permeated the air. Some of the mud ceilings were wet and dripping – “Like hanging skin,” Drea said in a whisper.

We followed the long, stone maze around several sharp turns, small rooms and winding corridors, our anxiety gradually building with each step. We soon reached a doorway etched with the phrase Arrête! C’est ici l’empire de la Mort – Stop! This is the Empire of the Dead. This was it. As I crossed the threshold, I let out a gasp. Human skulls were on either side of me, nestled tightly among thousands of femurs. The walls had transformed from wet stone to human remains. I peeled my eyes away and realized I was separated from Drea. I was all alone with the bones.

I pressed on as the corridor narrowed. So much so that when I turned to my left, I made sure my back wasn’t brushing against the bones. As the initial shock wore off, I took note of the intricate arrangement of the remains. The leg bones were stacked with great care, interspersed with skulls forming the shapes of crosses and hearts.

I was overwhelmed by the number of bones. Hallway upon hallway, chamber after chamber stacked from floor to ceiling with nothing but human bones. I wondered how they died – illness, murder, natural causes. I pondered how they had lived and what they might think about their remnants being on display, serving as a grim reminder of our inevitable destiny.

After an hour of wandering underground, I reunited with Drea. We made our way out of the bones and into the final chamber with a spiral staircase. We ascended, dizzy and breathless and eventually exited through an unmarked side door. The light was blinding, the air cold and crisp. We found ourselves on a quiet alley where all seemed normal, but we knew better. We were now accutely aware that lurking below us rested the remains of millions of Parisians.