Due to my imperfect health I have tried really hard not to wear myself out this summer. One activity every other day. Lots of watching instead of doing. Riding trains and buses instead of walking and staying at the bottom and letting others climb to the top. Happy to be out of bed and touring about but certainly not my normal gung ho self. I’ve done a good job not crashing and burning until today. Today, I went into the belly of Paris, several stories underground, to tour the Catacombs. You walk a couple of kilometers underground through the artfully stacked bones of exhumed graveyards. Bones were popping up out of the ground, rats were rampant and building was thwarted by the cemeteries around Paris. So Napoleon dug them up and lined the stone quarries already lurking under Paris with them. Voila! Problem solved and bandy legged tourist, deathly afraid of tunnels, (me for example) have been strolling through them for two hundred years. The problem is that at the end you have to climb back out. There are one million weirdly spaced stairs in a circular pattern to climb. I seriously considered laying down in a pile of Nun’s bones from the Convent of the Innocents graveyard, circa 1794, and going to sleep. The only reason I made it out at all was that Finn had gone ahead of me and was doing who knows what in the streets of Paris above. I barely made it home and I’ve been in bed since except for a salad break. And by salad I mean wine and ice cream.
Lielie really likes the catacombs and feels quieted by sharing space with the dead. All the boys (Finn and the three French cousins) had the opposite reaction. Dark, wet and spooky meant jumping out of dark corners, squealing like Scottish warriors in a fjord and checking skulls for bullet holes.
Vacations look so bright and shiny on social media. But in reality people are biting each other in damp caves full of bones. Finn was totally busted by the flash!