6. Catacombes

I stand in line and excitedly wait to visit des Catacombes on the south side of Paris.  We’re told upon arrival that it’s about a two-hour wait, but for me and my BFF traveling with me, that’s okay.  She agreed to come with me today to experience something really different after a day of museum hopping yesterday.  “Think of all of the bones, from all of the cemeteries, in all of Paris that were brought here back in the 1700s.  Think of all of the skulls — millions of them.”  She looks at me like I’m nuts for wanting to visit such a place, so I stop talking as we wait, wait and wait some more.  We are inching forward ever so slowly, and I’m getting more excited.  She’s being more tolerant.  We reach the halfway point and strike up a conversation with the women in front of us.  The five of them are part of a travel group from all corners of the world that is touring Europe.  There is a mother and daughter from South Africa, a woman from Mexico and two friendly Aussies.  Talking with them helps pass time, and before I know it, we are at the entrance.  I excitedly walk in but then pause after the woman from Mexico City reacts to the warning sign about potential health hazards that’s posted near an oxygen tank.  It’s next to another sign that says the catacombs are 130 steps underground.  “Lisa,” my friend says.  “Did you read that it’s 130 steps down?”  “Uh-huh.  I just saw that.  I didn’t know it was that far down.”  “Are you still okay with this?”  “Yes.  I think so.  Are you?”  “I’m good.  Let’s go.”  We proceed through the turnstile, and I pull my flashlight out of my bag.  One of the Aussies comments on how prepared I am.  “I want to do this right,” I say.  “I want to see everything.”  The mother and daughter lead the way down a very narrow, spiral stairwell with the Aussies bringing up the rear of our small group.  Before long, I notice that the street noises are getting fainter and the silence around me is getting “louder”.  I feel my heart start to beat a little bit harder but try to ignore it as we go farther down.  Then I stop abruptly.  “What are you doing?” my friend asks me.  “I don’t know.  I need to stop.  Something is wrong.”  I press my back against the wall and take a deep breath.  “Can you see the bottom yet?”  I yell down to the mother and daughter.  I can’t see them anymore.  “No.  Not even close,” echoes back to me.  I take another deep breath and look at my friend.  “Are you okay?” she asks.  “No.  It’s weird.  It feels like death in here — like we shouldn’t be doing this.  I don’t know if I can do this.”  “Are you serious?  You’re fearless.”  I start to laugh.  “You are.  Look at everything you do.”  I nod my head in agreement while I tell the Aussies to go ahead of me.  “You have to go,” one of them says as she walks past.  “You said you were going to blog about this.  Think of your website and the blog.  Do it for the blog!”  I look at the spiral above me and then back down to what seems to be an endless set of steps below.  My mind is racing with frustration over my sudden reaction to the climb down.  “Damn it,” I say.  “I really want to do this.”  I take a few more steps then reluctantly stop again and look at my friend.  “I can’t do it.  I’m sorry.  I need to go back up.  This just doesn’t feel right.  And you know I’m not claustrophobic.”  “I know you’re not.  Let’s go back up.”  We carefully walk up, passing by other people on their way down.  The employee at the doorway asks, “You’re leaving?”  “Yes.  I can’t do it.  It just feels wrong.  How many people turn around and don’t do it?”  “About one a day.  I guess you are today’s one quitter.”  I don’t like how that sounds, but we exit the building and sit on a park bench.  I look down at my hands and am surprised to see how badly I’m trembling.  “Damn it.  What was that?”  My friend looks at me and shrugs her shoulders.  “It’s okay.  Let’s just go and do something else.”  “No, it’s not okay.  I just failed at this.”  She looks at me like I’m crazy.  “You didn’t fail at anything.  For whatever reason, you just didn’t like it.  And that’s okay.  Let’s just go to the Liberation Museum.”  Her easygoing nature is comforting, and I wish I had her ability to let things go.  Knowing me, this will bother me for a long time.  “You ready?” she asks.  I take a photo of the des Catacombes sign spray painted on the sidewalk.  “Yep.  Let’s go.”  Damn it…