Paris, a single day passes and I miss it already. The dietary sins, napping in four hour bursts for days at a time, squidging my toes into wet socks and even wetter shoes. That fleeting moment of cleanliness in the morning which lasts only until you drag on that mud, turd and dried sweat encrusted backpack. If cleanliness is next to godliness douse me in holy water and strike me down where I stand. Clean is overrated, sterile is a life not lived. The trenches are dirty, dark and damp. Get in em.
Bump bump bump
They're quite accomodating of the toursists. Explorers have to trip the sensor themselves.
quantum-x and I met the impeccably dressed redhead-without-an-alias at the Eurostar and kindly let her change out of the high heels. Hollywood has seduced me into believing that vixens in stilettos can perform amazingly dexterous feats of ass kickery and ninjistics but I'm yet to see real life evidence supporting this facade. We've been lied to for the longest time. That said I am receptive to evidence to the contrary, feel free to provide pictures and/or video. More suitably attired we hopped the metro (trains, not tunnels) in search of heavy industry.
Sun Room
Fav++
Powerstation
Forgotten by the Parisian explorers waited a gorgeous decaying powerstation adjacent to an active switchyard. The locals would not shy at a mere switchyard, so we could only assume this was mostly off the seemingly random Parisian radar. Perhaps it had fallen out of favour or fashion, I can't say.
Boiler House
The stripped boiler house.
The cavernous turbine hall stretches the length of the station, now home to birds who next high in the ceiling. They chirp occasionally to remind us we are the visitors here. What humans discard nature takes on. Bathed in soft golden light turbine innards lie scattered across the hall, the aftermath of a mechanical autopsy by a drunken surgeon with attention deficit disorder. The grandeur of the turbine hall contrasts against the rough concrete pillars of the boiler house. The boiler are long gone from the space which is now open and empty save for the crumbling skewers of concrete supporting the floors. In the late afternoon sun we basked on the roof, taking the views of the suburbs outside the periphery of Paris. Lazy days such as these relax the mind and body, aprecursor to the stressful nights ahead. Soon enough we would be running the metro.
Bugged Out
21/4, Velvia 100f.
Sage
She's got the finest fastest pulling twin diesels, she's got ninety three cars in tow.
Turbine BBW
Ha!
Catacombs
Even if you've not been to the catacombs, there are spaces with which you are likely familiar. The castle room and the single stair mineralogical room are old favourites. Hundreds of years of smoke, sweat and alcohol seep from the stones and hang heavy in the air. Could these walls talk, like many in the catas, they'd tell stories of sorrow, happiness and laughter.
Fortress
The castle room is a neat place to kill the torch light and kick back by candle light.
The catacombs are more than just tunnels, galleries and piles of bones, they're the stage of a story that's been told over and over by generations of explorers. Love, hate, sex, beatdowns, deaths. Within these walls we're all miniscule notches on a timescale stretching hundreds of years. Long after I'm dead, buried and forgotten these walls will watch the boisterous passing of curious Parisians, those bold souls grasping life to wring every last drop of goodness from it. Maybe some will pass like I did, reading the names scrawled upon the walls, deciphering the little letters and feeling a bond with someone they will never meet but who shared that same drive, that same push to take the road less travelled. Those who genuinely do, those that will risk life and limb to venture deeper and further than their counterparts might end up where we did next. My favourite part of Paris said without hesitation, The Metro.
Intrepid Cartographer
A wader clad quantum-x investigating the directions to an unmarked, partially explained chatiere.
Terminus
Without a guide, this is the end.
Metro
I'll save you the dramatic wankery because come September you'll hear little else, here's a teaser: METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METROFUCKER. That's September through December in a nutshell. Don't say I didn't warn you. One pleasant surprise is that Arc'Teryx has imbued their softshells with the power to shield one from electricity conductivity. Money well spent I assure you, my ability to tell you this is testament.
900v
Fuck the internet superhighway, this the electron railway. All afuckingboard. Watch your elbows there cap'n, those third rails bite. Maybe it's turned off. Are you game to find out?
Zoom zoom rotary
A quick little solo explore in the south of Paris. Solo heightens sharpens everything.
Swerve Life
Hit the rails then hit the legs. Life is better lived on the edge. The days are shorter, nights are longer and you'll care less about the bullshit drama that everyone else is blathering about. When you've gone head to head with the rumbling steel the little things just do not matter.
Cemetery
Upon a dark windy night, below a brooding tempestuous sky quantum-x, redhead-to-shortly-have-an-alias and I vaulted the large brick fence and snaked through the tombstones. We zigzagged down the aisles, crossing between the graves scouring the ground for a manhole, any manhole, into a small labyrinth of bare rock tunnels rumoured to contain corpses. Not skeletons you see, but proper bodies still clothed in the garb of their burial. In Paris if you don't pay the upkeep on your grave plot you are exhumed clothing and all, poured from your casket into a plastic bag and dropped down a manhole into the tunnels. Be nice to your grandchildren readers, for when that initial plot payment runs dry and the caretaker comes knocking pray they remember the sweets you would buy and they, with a tear in their eye, hand over the crisp bills which ensure you may rest undisturbed but a little while longer.
Cemetery
A labyrinth like network of tunnels below a small Paris cemetery used to store the remains of those no longer paying for the right to rest in peace.
Mere meters from the caretakers house, cloaked by the gentle patter of rain we raised a manhole ever so gently. The flimsy portal to the afterlife, at least the afterlife of those unable to meet their financial commitments, was open. Far too heavy to close from below we rested it carefully on the metal edge and slipped below. The labyrinthine tunnels are rarely standing height, snaking around the cemetery grounds in a rough circle. Various side tunnels dart in seemingly random directions, some stopping in walls of bones, others looping back around upon themselves. Many have a few bones scattered along the floor, knobby ends poking up through the mud like the remains of a century old crusade by one bone colony who went looking for another but never returned.
As the creepiness of the bones wears off, a slimy drip down your collar might draw your attention to the ceiling and the glistening nodules, tinged a yellow green, which cover it. The ground above you is rich with the decomposed, putrefied remains of hundreds of people, liquefied and seeping downwards into the tunnels. As the primordial soup is the pool from which we emerged, this corpsejuice coagulated upon the ceiling and walls is the gelatinous goop into which we finally dissolve.
Cannibalism
From the primordial soup we rose, into goop we return. Delicious thich tasty goop, lick it right off the walls below this cemetery. It's liquid people!
Shortly we encountered the stunning specimen which is Mort. Surely a cantankerous bastard in life, he's a damn sight more unhappy in death. You would be too left underground for a couple of hundred years with corpsejuice dripping on your skull. He took one glance at the redhead, clearly the looker of the group then launched himself across the room and latched onto her face. Mort's an expert French kisser, lacking a tongue was merely an inconvenience to one of his skill. Improvising he jammed his entire lower jaw into the redheads gob and bit down hard around her nose, lips and palate.
Though flattered to be French kissed by an old school Frenchman the redhead, an expert pillow fighter, clawed Mort away from devouring half her face and flung him across the room with an almighty screech. Her banshee like wail didn't end there, she was more distraught than a surprise skull snogging should warrant. Clearly visible amongst the rows of rotten teeth in Mort's jaw was embedded one pearly shard. It seems the bastard didn't want a kiss at all, just a new set of shiny chompers.
Mort
Ol' Mort lost his jaw in an altercation with the redhead. They both came off a lil worse for it. Lesson learned, do not fuck with cantankerous skulls and redheads.
The wailing softened, the tears dried and with some coaxing quantum-x and I, trained dental practitioners of the highest calibre peered into the redhead's mouth the way men stand around a car with the hood up nodding in agreeance. Composure remained intact until it because evident she had lost not a whole tooth but one jagged section, creating what can only be described as a fang. Thus, the redhead-without-a-name became Fang forevermore. Hurt and puppy-eyed she dislodged the tooth fragment from lonely ol' Mort, clutched it safely to her breast and declared loudly over our floor borne laughter she would find a dentist, a real dentist, and have it affixed once more. However, fang or no fang, Fang she would remain.
We never did find our dapper bodies in bags, dumped underground as casually as possible. This was all just another wild corpse chase. There are plenty more cemeteries to scour though so the search continues to find the mysterious cities of gold (corpses).
Bump bump bump
They're quite accomodating of the toursists. Explorers have to trip the sensor themselves.
quantum-x and I met the impeccably dressed redhead-without-an-alias at the Eurostar and kindly let her change out of the high heels. Hollywood has seduced me into believing that vixens in stilettos can perform amazingly dexterous feats of ass kickery and ninjistics but I'm yet to see real life evidence supporting this facade. We've been lied to for the longest time. That said I am receptive to evidence to the contrary, feel free to provide pictures and/or video. More suitably attired we hopped the metro (trains, not tunnels) in search of heavy industry.
Sun Room
Fav++
Powerstation
Forgotten by the Parisian explorers waited a gorgeous decaying powerstation adjacent to an active switchyard. The locals would not shy at a mere switchyard, so we could only assume this was mostly off the seemingly random Parisian radar. Perhaps it had fallen out of favour or fashion, I can't say.
Boiler House
The stripped boiler house.
The cavernous turbine hall stretches the length of the station, now home to birds who next high in the ceiling. They chirp occasionally to remind us we are the visitors here. What humans discard nature takes on. Bathed in soft golden light turbine innards lie scattered across the hall, the aftermath of a mechanical autopsy by a drunken surgeon with attention deficit disorder. The grandeur of the turbine hall contrasts against the rough concrete pillars of the boiler house. The boiler are long gone from the space which is now open and empty save for the crumbling skewers of concrete supporting the floors. In the late afternoon sun we basked on the roof, taking the views of the suburbs outside the periphery of Paris. Lazy days such as these relax the mind and body, aprecursor to the stressful nights ahead. Soon enough we would be running the metro.
Bugged Out
21/4, Velvia 100f.
Sage
She's got the finest fastest pulling twin diesels, she's got ninety three cars in tow.
Turbine BBW
Ha!
Catacombs
Even if you've not been to the catacombs, there are spaces with which you are likely familiar. The castle room and the single stair mineralogical room are old favourites. Hundreds of years of smoke, sweat and alcohol seep from the stones and hang heavy in the air. Could these walls talk, like many in the catas, they'd tell stories of sorrow, happiness and laughter.
Fortress
The castle room is a neat place to kill the torch light and kick back by candle light.
The catacombs are more than just tunnels, galleries and piles of bones, they're the stage of a story that's been told over and over by generations of explorers. Love, hate, sex, beatdowns, deaths. Within these walls we're all miniscule notches on a timescale stretching hundreds of years. Long after I'm dead, buried and forgotten these walls will watch the boisterous passing of curious Parisians, those bold souls grasping life to wring every last drop of goodness from it. Maybe some will pass like I did, reading the names scrawled upon the walls, deciphering the little letters and feeling a bond with someone they will never meet but who shared that same drive, that same push to take the road less travelled. Those who genuinely do, those that will risk life and limb to venture deeper and further than their counterparts might end up where we did next. My favourite part of Paris said without hesitation, The Metro.
Intrepid Cartographer
A wader clad quantum-x investigating the directions to an unmarked, partially explained chatiere.
Terminus
Without a guide, this is the end.
Metro
I'll save you the dramatic wankery because come September you'll hear little else, here's a teaser: METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METRO METROFUCKER. That's September through December in a nutshell. Don't say I didn't warn you. One pleasant surprise is that Arc'Teryx has imbued their softshells with the power to shield one from electricity conductivity. Money well spent I assure you, my ability to tell you this is testament.
900v
Fuck the internet superhighway, this the electron railway. All afuckingboard. Watch your elbows there cap'n, those third rails bite. Maybe it's turned off. Are you game to find out?
Zoom zoom rotary
A quick little solo explore in the south of Paris. Solo heightens sharpens everything.
Swerve Life
Hit the rails then hit the legs. Life is better lived on the edge. The days are shorter, nights are longer and you'll care less about the bullshit drama that everyone else is blathering about. When you've gone head to head with the rumbling steel the little things just do not matter.
Cemetery
Upon a dark windy night, below a brooding tempestuous sky quantum-x, redhead-to-shortly-have-an-alias and I vaulted the large brick fence and snaked through the tombstones. We zigzagged down the aisles, crossing between the graves scouring the ground for a manhole, any manhole, into a small labyrinth of bare rock tunnels rumoured to contain corpses. Not skeletons you see, but proper bodies still clothed in the garb of their burial. In Paris if you don't pay the upkeep on your grave plot you are exhumed clothing and all, poured from your casket into a plastic bag and dropped down a manhole into the tunnels. Be nice to your grandchildren readers, for when that initial plot payment runs dry and the caretaker comes knocking pray they remember the sweets you would buy and they, with a tear in their eye, hand over the crisp bills which ensure you may rest undisturbed but a little while longer.
Cemetery
A labyrinth like network of tunnels below a small Paris cemetery used to store the remains of those no longer paying for the right to rest in peace.
Mere meters from the caretakers house, cloaked by the gentle patter of rain we raised a manhole ever so gently. The flimsy portal to the afterlife, at least the afterlife of those unable to meet their financial commitments, was open. Far too heavy to close from below we rested it carefully on the metal edge and slipped below. The labyrinthine tunnels are rarely standing height, snaking around the cemetery grounds in a rough circle. Various side tunnels dart in seemingly random directions, some stopping in walls of bones, others looping back around upon themselves. Many have a few bones scattered along the floor, knobby ends poking up through the mud like the remains of a century old crusade by one bone colony who went looking for another but never returned.
As the creepiness of the bones wears off, a slimy drip down your collar might draw your attention to the ceiling and the glistening nodules, tinged a yellow green, which cover it. The ground above you is rich with the decomposed, putrefied remains of hundreds of people, liquefied and seeping downwards into the tunnels. As the primordial soup is the pool from which we emerged, this corpsejuice coagulated upon the ceiling and walls is the gelatinous goop into which we finally dissolve.
Cannibalism
From the primordial soup we rose, into goop we return. Delicious thich tasty goop, lick it right off the walls below this cemetery. It's liquid people!
Shortly we encountered the stunning specimen which is Mort. Surely a cantankerous bastard in life, he's a damn sight more unhappy in death. You would be too left underground for a couple of hundred years with corpsejuice dripping on your skull. He took one glance at the redhead, clearly the looker of the group then launched himself across the room and latched onto her face. Mort's an expert French kisser, lacking a tongue was merely an inconvenience to one of his skill. Improvising he jammed his entire lower jaw into the redheads gob and bit down hard around her nose, lips and palate.
Though flattered to be French kissed by an old school Frenchman the redhead, an expert pillow fighter, clawed Mort away from devouring half her face and flung him across the room with an almighty screech. Her banshee like wail didn't end there, she was more distraught than a surprise skull snogging should warrant. Clearly visible amongst the rows of rotten teeth in Mort's jaw was embedded one pearly shard. It seems the bastard didn't want a kiss at all, just a new set of shiny chompers.
Mort
Ol' Mort lost his jaw in an altercation with the redhead. They both came off a lil worse for it. Lesson learned, do not fuck with cantankerous skulls and redheads.
The wailing softened, the tears dried and with some coaxing quantum-x and I, trained dental practitioners of the highest calibre peered into the redhead's mouth the way men stand around a car with the hood up nodding in agreeance. Composure remained intact until it because evident she had lost not a whole tooth but one jagged section, creating what can only be described as a fang. Thus, the redhead-without-a-name became Fang forevermore. Hurt and puppy-eyed she dislodged the tooth fragment from lonely ol' Mort, clutched it safely to her breast and declared loudly over our floor borne laughter she would find a dentist, a real dentist, and have it affixed once more. However, fang or no fang, Fang she would remain.
We never did find our dapper bodies in bags, dumped underground as casually as possible. This was all just another wild corpse chase. There are plenty more cemeteries to scour though so the search continues to find the mysterious cities of gold (corpses).
