Entering the Paris Catacombs is not your typical tourist activity. Forget guided tours and well-lit paths; this is about descending into a hidden world beneath the bustling city, a realm known only to a select few. We were told to come prepared for anything: inconspicuous clothes, sturdy boots, gloves, food, identification – and even a rosary, just in case. Our guide to this underworld, Mr. X, met us at a secret location, and that’s where our catacombs adventure began.
The entrance was unassuming – a simple manhole cover. With a specialized tool, Mr. X unhinged the heavy metal, signaling our rapid descent. There was no time for hesitation, no room for second thoughts. Like shadows in the night, we scrambled towards the opening, ready to plunge into the darkness. The only way was down, and we had to do it quickly.
The initial descent was a chaotic scramble down a ladder, each rung taking us further away from the familiar world above. Twenty meters down, and still going. Hands slipped, fingers were stepped on – a hurried race into the unknown depths.
Finally, my feet hit solid ground, or rather, damp sand. Alex landed beside me. We were in. The heartbeat began to slow, replaced by a different kind of thrum – the thrill of having breached the surface and entered the Parisian catacombs.
Down here, the rules of the world above seemed to fade away. “They can’t get us down here,” someone whispered, a sense of illicit freedom filling the damp air. We had crossed a threshold, belonging now to the underworld.
Our immediate surroundings told a story of centuries. Medieval carvings marked the walls, remnants of the limestone miners who first excavated these tunnels. Layered on top were the more recent graffiti tags of cataphiles past and present. Mr. X began to outline the ‘rules’ – not laws, but a code of conduct, the unwritten ethics of the cataphiles.
But what exactly is a cataphile? It’s more than just someone who visits the catacombs.
Perhaps the real question is, how do you become one? This was my first true catacombs experience. No authorized entry, no safety nets, and undeniably illegal. This was level one, a beginner’s initiation into Paris’s sprawling subterranean network. It was a taste, a potential first step on the path to becoming a ‘true’ cataphile – a path that might choose you as much as you choose it.
Mr. X was the embodiment of a cataphile. He navigated these tunnels illegally, sometimes multiple times a week, intimately familiar with their deepest reaches. By day, he was an IT consultant, his nocturnal explorations a closely guarded secret. We were introduced through Foulques, founder of We Are the Oracle, a group known for throwing clandestine events in unusual Parisian locations – secret bunkers, abandoned chateaus, and even catacomb banquets. Foulques, a seasoned cataphile himself, was also with us, acting as a mentor in my underworld initiation.
The basic level one guidelines were clear and concise:
Should we encounter other cataphiles, be friendly, but never reveal entrance or exit points.
Leave no trace of our passage.
If lost, stay put and wait – navigation by novices is strictly forbidden.
And with that, we ventured deeper, guided by Mr. X and his gas lamp. The tunnels twisted and turned, resembling ancient crypts more than city infrastructure.
Mr. X set a brisk pace. This was no leisurely stroll. Keeping up was essential to avoid getting lost in the labyrinthine darkness or tripping on the uneven ground. Low heads and quick feet were the order of the exploration.
Occasionally, street signs appeared on the tunnel walls, surreal markers of the world above. But mostly, it was a disorienting maze, easy to lose oneself in.
After what felt like an eternity of hurried ducking and diving, we reached a dead end – or so it seemed. A small opening, barely larger than a cat flap, blocked our path.
“Looks like we turn back,” someone sighed.
But then, Mr. X approached the opening.
In seconds, he contorted his body, wiggling through the impossibly small gap and disappearing to the other side.
“Follow me,” he called back, his voice echoing from beyond.
“Yeah right,” was the general consensus.
The undignified struggle to get through that hole is better left to the imagination. Suffice to say, it involved more crashing than wiggling. Eventually, all seven of us squeezed through, emerging into a new section of the catacombs, slightly battered but exhilarated.
Dinner was in order. We settled into a grotto, a chamber carved out by unknown hands long ago.
At the grotto’s entrance, a hanging doll – or “art installation” as it was dubbed – served as a quirky reminder that even in this cozy, candlelit space, complete relaxation felt out of place. This was still the catacombs, a realm of shadows and secrets.
Even in the underworld, organic options were appreciated.
Our feast was an eclectic mix: dried figs, saucisson, organic peanut butter, Nutella, crackers, and of course, wine. But time was precious, and the night was young. Stories exchanged in the candlelight, and then we were off again, searching for a hidden bunker.
Mr. X delivered. Deeper into the damp tunnels, we found it – an old, disused air raid bunker, directly beneath a post office above ground.
The bunker was vast and impressive, a subterranean canvas for street artists. Torches were lit, illuminating the space.
A dual staircase hinted at a hidden entrance, likely leading to a forgotten door within the post office.
Foulques recounted tales of past clandestine dinner parties held in this very bunker.
Tonight, however, was different. No candelabras, no music, just silence broken by the drip of water and the flicker of our torches.
We were alone with the vibrant frescoes that adorned the bunker walls, each torchlight revealing hidden details.
Finding a “13” tag felt like a lucky sign in this surreal place.
Gathered around a well within the bunker, we noticed we weren’t entirely alone. Unwelcome locals emerged from the shadows.
If you have a fear of creepy crawlies, look away now.
They moved like spiders but resembled crickets, drawn to the torchlight despite their subterranean existence in perpetual darkness.
Time had vanished in the catacombs. Hours had passed unnoticed. Bidding farewell to our cricket-spider companions, we decided it was time to ascend, to return to the surface and catch the last metro.
The climb back up felt longer and harder, a stark reminder of the depth we had explored. Even during the arduous ascent, Foulques, our ever-jovial party planner, managed to crack a joke.
Emerging from the manhole was like stepping into another reality. Car headlights blinded us, the sounds of the city assaulted our ears. Dazed but exhilarated, we clambered out, the manhole swiftly replaced, and dispersed into the Parisian night, leaving no trace of our subterranean adventure. It felt like a dream.
Back home, the night felt unreal, a journey through time or a shared hallucination. But the pull of the catacombs was undeniable. Level one was complete, and the craving for level two had already begun.
If the Parisian underworld intrigues you, exploring the world of We Are the Oracle might be your first step to connecting with experienced cataphiles. Delve into the WATO experience and perhaps, like us, you’ll find yourself drawn into the shadows, with Mr. X lurking somewhere just beyond the torchlight.
