My first trip to Paris was 28 years ago. Even then, I heard people mention taking a visit to the catacombs in Paris. Never went. A group of high school kids in a country where we could legally drink alcohol? Guess where our priorities were?

Five trips to Paris later and I finally sought out the land of the dead. This was one of the most fascinating experiences of my life and I can’t recommend it enough.

What it is:

The catacombs are the final (this time for sure) resting place for hundreds of thousands of Parisians from its early centuries. With hundreds of years of Parisian burials and a growing metropolis, the body count started to negatively impact those still alive – largely from disease from all that built up human disposal (but probably also in taking up prime real estate). So, in a gesture of “two birds with one stone” the bodies were relocated to the miles and miles of underground quarries that existed underneath the city. Stone came out, bones went in.

Initially, the bones of poor people were just unceremoniously dumped there, but over time they decided to show a bit more respect for their dead. As cemetery after cemetery relocated the necro-pulace* there, they began to construct in a more organized fashion – stacking the bones and skulls, even to the point of creating memorial structures out of bones.

Now for the cost of a pint of beer, you can visit and see for yourself.

My walk-through:

First off, arrive in the morning. The catacombs are limited to 200 people at a time inside, so if you arrive after noon you probably have at least a 90 minute wait. If you wait until after 2pm to get there, you probably aren’t getting in.

Second, bring something to read. Something longer than the back of a Magnum Classic wrapper. You’ll be waiting to get in, so relax and deal with it. It’s worth it.

——

Walking down several floors of a stone spiral staircase always has that feeling of a descent into Dante’s circles of Hell and never have I felt closer to that metaphor. Down I go, deeper and deeper – nothing much to see, but every so often there’s a narrow off-shoot that goes into the distance behind iron gates. I brought a flashlight, but the light gets eaten up before going too far down those mysterious locked off caverns.

Once at the so-called bottom, there’s a continued walk down narrow passages with low ceilings (which were probably high ceilings for the very diminutive residents of the 18th century). The first 200m are fairly quiet, then the *crunch, crunch* of gravel walkways begins. At least I hope that’s gravel.

Several carvings made of limestone tell me I’m getting close to the real action. These were done by workers there, hundreds of years ago as part of their tribute to the dead.

Finally, you reach the true starting point.

“Stop! This is the Empire of the Dead!”

Of course, it’s gradually gotten colder and colder with the descent hundreds of meters underground, but this is the first time I notice the chill and pat myself on the back for bringing a light jacket.

After ignoring that warning and venturing toward hundreds of years of pain, anguish, death and hard work, I’m overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of what lay beyond.

Author’s note: god, that was awful. I’m truly sorry for the cheesy midnight movie tone, it kinda comes out naturally in a place like this.

I expect the stench of death to permeate the place, but there’s nothing. Admittedly, a week of the Metro may have inured me to offensive smells.

The bones are stacked like tiny pieces of firewood on all sides. And those stacks extend even deeper into the caverns, it’s not just one narrow line, but several layers deep all around you. But unlike an endless corridor of yule logs, the mounds are meticulously crafted and organized.

Mixing, matching, trading pieces so they fit together – not only to keep them in place, but also to memorialize their ancestors. Some of the arrangements created are not simple piles, but patterns – geometric, or more often, they are stacked in such a way that the skulls form crucifixes, archways or even tombstones. Sometimes artifacts are embedded within the stacks.

I envision the laborers stacking bones as though it’s some macabre Lego set.

“Hey, I’ve got a small space I need to fill here! Anyone got a femur from a 7 year old? Anyone? I’ll trade you 3 fingers and a baby skull for one.”

Room after room, corridor after corridor, I wind through an unfathomable number of bones filling my field of vision in all directions except the narrow path my feet continue to follow. Eventually, the world also grows damp as condensation, water seepage and who knows what else drips from the ceiling.

As a young woman shrieks “ewww! Water dripped on me!” I scar her by telling her that it’s not water, it’s “death juice.” Truth be told, as the water drips down and the floor gets moist, there’s no doubt that some of the liquid is mixing with the raw materials that surround us.

At every turn there are more bones, but I was more incredulous at the existence of the never-ending line of locked corridors and stairwells that lead to deeper levels and even more denizens of the substrate.

Finally, as we reach the end of the public portion of the tunnels, we begin a long, steep ascent up another stairwell – several city blocks from where we began our skeletal sojourn.

Though there was no bag check to get into the eerie edifice, there was a very large security guard at the exit inspecting to ensure the dead remained in their homes.

For more official information, here’s the website: http://www.catacombes-de-paris.fr/english.htm

*Author’s Note: I made up the word necro-pulace and I like it. And I apologize again for the melodramatic “dark and stormy night” writing – but it was fun.