I'm standing in
the fore-garden of the Louvre museum looking down at the manhole. I’m on the
other side of the museum, away from the bustle surrounding the impressive glass
pyramid. The dust from the gravel which is being kicked up by the many tourists
heading through to their pointy goal, hits my face. It is windy, and for a cool
day in May I’m surprised by how many non-Parisians are milling about. But if I’m
here, why shouldn’t anyone else be here.
Nearby a family
plays chess on one of those life-size chess boards. The little boy heaves a
rook with
both arms, and all of his strength, to a black square while mom and dad look
on. I kneel down to get a closer look at the man hole. Everyone has seen Les
Mis and Phantom; has heard the legends (or are the just rumours?) of the
Parisian Underground. I am curious.
I wish I
could see anything, but of course it’s
just dark. I wish I was braver, but of course I’m still just me. I might be taking these days to explore the corners
of a city I don’t know too well, but I’m not going to do anything crazy; nothing
crazy like trying to meet a cataphile who parties and paints and hangs out “down
there”.
I’m
completely intrigued though, by what I’ve heard. Apparently, there are huge man-made ponds
with fish fed by employees of the Opéra Garnier; rock quarries, which to this
day still implode once in a while, gleaned for building material back in the
day; France’s largest gold reserve which stays mostly hidden from thieves,
except for once or twice; and huge bone-filled ‘rooms’…apparently six million
Parisians were poured underground from overcrowded cemeteries in the 18th
and 19th centuries. “All are
anonymous, disarticulated. All individuality forgotten,” writes Neil Shea, from
National Geographic, in a fascinating article about this dark side of Paris (http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2011/02/paris-underground/shea-text/6). If only I could see a bit of it
all, but do I really want to?
 |
| Sure is a pretty manhole. |
A day
later, I’m sitting on the top deck of a river ferry, forcing myself to ignore the
cold wind thrashing at my face. I do love this river. The view of the Seine is
truly beautiful from every standpoint that I’ve seen so far. From one of its
37 bridges, from the varied banks you can amble along, from the impressive
jardins, from high above, and now from the water. What is most impressive are
the buildings along the river, each as eye-catching and interesting as the
other. But, I’m here for the stories.
The young tour
guidess, gives choppy English commentary through the gusts of wind and I hear
her say something about the guillotine. For some reason, I sit up a little straighter
and try to make out the rest of what she’s saying, in French…"la guillotine…l'exécution
de Louis XVI…et Marie
Antoinette… sur les 2 498 personnes guillotinées à Paris
pendant la Révolution” (okay, I didn’t actually understand the rest). I
notice we’re floating past the Place de la Concorde, which I now like to call ‘Place
de Guillotine’. Here stood the guillotine; a horrific death apparatus set up
for, as the Germans call their outdoor soccer-viewing events, public viewing. I’m
sorry. They say society has become more violent! Families used to come out to
the town square to watch the latest beheading! In this respect I actually think
‘Keeping up with the Kardashians’ is a sign we’ve evolved as mankind. Or, at least
I’m happier thinking the violence is not as publicly-endorsed as it used to be.
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