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Erin McCarthy

Spending Time Among the Bones of Paris's Catacombs

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Erin McCarthy

In Paris, what’s beneath the sidewalks is as exciting as the monuments that tower above them. The underground is a labyrinth of canals, crypts, vaults, reservoirs, and hundreds of miles of tunnels ripe for exploration. Some people who roam beneath the city are doing it illegally to repair neglected treasures, throw parties, or paint murals, but there are legal ways to explore the canals and crypts, too.

For a fee, access is granted to an approved section of les égouts—or the sewers—which Victor Hugo called "the conscience of the city" in Les Miserables. (To accurately write about Jean Valjean's trip through the sewers, Hugo called on help from his friend, sewer inspector Emmanuel Bruneseau.) Visitors with more macabre interests, however, can descend 65 feet underground, below the metro and the sewers, to walk amongst the bones of the dead in the famous les Carrieres de Paris—also known as the Catacombs.

Arrête, c'est ici l'empire de la mort

Forty-five million years ago, a tropical sea covered the area that would become Paris. Over time, the sediment on the seabed became formations of limestone, which the Romans would mine when Paris was known as Roman Lutetia. Open quarry pits gave way to nearly 187 miles of underground tunnels, which provided the stone that built the Louvre and Notre Dame.

Eventually, the quarries were abandoned. But in the 18th century, they became the best solution to Paris’s growing public health problem.  

In the late 1700s, the mass graves at cemeteries like Saints-Innocents in Paris’s Les Halles district were overcrowded with bodies. Improper disposal of corpses led to unsanitary conditions that contributed to the spread of disease.

To save the living, authorities shut down Saint-Innocents and, in April 1786, began relocating the remains buried in the cemetery to the Tombe-Issoire quarries, which had been blessed and consecrated for the purpose. Transferring the bones from the Saints-Innocents Cemetery—the largest in Paris—took two years. Between 1787 and 1814, bones were transferred from other Parisian cemeteries; the final transfer of bones took place in 1859.

A number of notable people buried in those cemeteries likely had their bones transferred to the Catacombs. The list includes writers Jean de La Fontaine (Fables) and Charles Perrault (known for fairy tales like Little Red Riding Hood, Cinderella, and Puss in Boots), painter Simon Vouet, and architect Salomon de Brosse (who designed the city's Luxembourg Palace). During the Revolution, people were buried directly in the Catacombs. Guillotine victims ended up there, too, including the likes of Maximilien Robespierre, Antoine Lavoisier, and Georges Danton, all beheaded in 1794.

The Catacombs hold the artfully arranged remains of 6 to 7 million Parisians. Above the entrance to the ossuary, carved into a stone, are the words “Arrête, c'est ici l'empire de la mort.” Stop, this is the empire of the dead.

Taking a Tour

The Catacombs opened to the public in the early 19th century. Visitors enter on Avenue Rene Coty and descend 130 steps to the former mines, where a truly spooky, interesting journey awaits.

The walls of the narrow corridors that lead to the ossuary are marked with the names of the streets and historical information. Visitors will pass through "The Workshop," an area of the former quarry featuring stone pillars that support its ceilings.  

Next is the Port-Mahon corridor, which features sculptures created by a quarryman named Decure. The corridor is named for the sculpture of the Port-Mahon, above; Decure, who had fought in the armies of Louis XV, may have been held captive at the fortress by the English. Visitors will also pass the Quarryman's footbath (below), which was uncovered by workers and used for mixing cement.

And then comes the ossuary. The sheer amount of bones in the former quarries is staggering. Though the bones inside are artfully arranged now, it wasn't always that way; at first, they were simply thrown inside. But around 1810, Hericart de Thury, the inspector of the quarries, had the bones organized. (Behind those facades, the rest of the bodies were piled in heaps stretching back to the cavern's walls.)

In addition to these artfully arranged bones, visitors can see a number of interesting things, including commemorative plaques, a sepulchral lamp used by quarrymen to make air circulate through the corridors, a cross and an altar, a spring called Fontain de la Samaritaine, and a single tombstone (it belongs to Françoise Gellain). Two features of the ossuary disguise structural reinforcements: Gilbert's Tomb, which features a verse from the poet (who is buried elsewhere), and a barrel-shaped display of skulls and shinbones in the Crypt of the Passions. (On April 2, 1897, two workers let in scientists, scholars, and artists for a middle-of-the-night, very secret concert held in the crypt. When their identities were discovered, the workers were fired.)

Workers are scattered throughout the Catacombs to answer questions, but mostly, visitors walk alone or with companions through the dimly lit, damp, nearly-silent space. The rules when wandering the catacombs are simple: Respect the final resting place of these Parisians. Look, but don't touch. Don't leave your mark at all, especially with graffiti. It might be tempting to snag yourself a souvenir from this most unique of attractions, but bags are searched for bones at the exit. If you're still looking for something to commemorate your visit, there's a gift shop just across the street.

All photos by the author.

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Pop Culture
Fumbled: The Story of the United States Football League
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davi_deste via eBay

There were supposed to be 44 players marching to the field when the visiting Los Angeles Express played their final regular season game against the Orlando Renegades in June 1985.

Thirty-six of them showed up. The team couldn’t afford more.

“We didn’t even have money for tape,” Express quarterback Steve Young said in 1986. “Or ice.” The squad was so poor that Young played fullback during the game. They only had one, and he was injured.

Other teams had ridden school buses to practice, driven three hours for “home games,” or shared dressing room space with the local rodeo. In August 1986, the cash-strapped United States Football League called off the coming season. The league itself would soon vaporize entirely after gambling its future on an antitrust lawsuit against the National Football League. The USFL argued the NFL was monopolizing television time; the NFL countered that the USFL—once seen as a promising upstart—was being victimized by its own reckless expansion and the wild spending of team owners like Donald Trump.

They were both right.

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Spring football. That was David Dixon’s pitch. The New Orleans businessman and football advocate—he helped get the Saints in his state—was a fan of college ball and noticed that spring scrimmages at Tulane University led to a little more excitement in the air. With a fiscally responsible salary cap in place and a 12-team roster, he figured his idea could be profitable. Market research agreed: a hired broadcast research firm asserted 76 percent of fans would watch what Dixon had planned.

He had no intention of grappling with the NFL for viewers. That league’s season aired from September through January, leaving a football drought March through July. And in 1982, a players’ strike led to a shortened NFL season, making the idea of an alternative even more appealing to networks. Along with investors for each team region, Dixon got ABC and the recently-formed ESPN signed to broadcast deals worth a combined $35 million over two years.

When the Chicago Blitz faced the Washington Federals on the USFL’s opening day March 6, 1983, over 39,000 fans braved rain at RFK Stadium in Washington to see it. The Federals lost 28-7, foreshadowing their overall performance as one of the league’s worst. Owner Berl Bernhard would later complain the team played like “untrained gerbils.”

Anything more coordinated might have been too expensive. The USFL had instituted a strict $1.8 million salary cap that first year to avoid franchise overspending, but there were allowances made so each team could grab one or two standout rookies. In 1983, the big acquisition was Heisman Trophy winner Herschel Walker, who opted out of his senior year at Georgia to turn pro. Walker signed with the New Jersey Generals in a three-year, $5 million deal.

Jim Kelly and Steve Young followed. Stan White left the Detroit Lions. Marcus Dupree left college. The rosters were built up from scratch using NFL cast-offs or prospects from nearby colleges, where teams had rights to “territorial” drafts.

To draw a line in the sand, the USFL had advertising play up the differences between the NFL’s product and their own. Their slogan, “When Football Was Fun,” was a swipe at the NFL’s increasingly draconian rules regarding players having any personality. They also advised teams to run a series of marketable halftime attractions. The Denver Gold once offered a money-back guarantee for attendees who weren’t satisfied. During one Houston Gamblers game, boxer George Foreman officiated a wedding. Cars were given away at Tampa Bay Bandits games. The NFL, the upstart argued, stood for the No Fun League.

For a while, it appeared to be working. The Panthers, which had invaded the city occupied by the Detroit Lions, averaged 60,000 fans per game, higher than their NFL counterparts. ABC was pleased with steady ratings. The league was still conservative in their spending.

That would change—many would argue for the worse—with the arrival of Donald Trump.

Despite Walker’s abilities on the field, his New Jersey Generals ended the inaugural 1983 season at 6-12, one of the worst records in the league. The excitement having worn off, owner J. Walter Duncan decided to sell the team to real estate investor Trump for a reported $5-9 million.

A fixture of New York media who was putting the finishing touches on Trump Tower, Trump introduced two extremes to the USFL. His presence gave the league far more press attention than it had ever received, but his bombastic approach to business guaranteed he wouldn’t be satisfied with an informal salary cap. Trump spent and spent some more, recruiting players to improve the Generals. Another Heisman winner, quarterback Doug Flutie, was signed to a five-year, $7 million contract, the largest in pro football at the time. Trump even pursued Lawrence Taylor, then a player for the New York Giants, who signed a contract saying that, after his Giants contract expired, he’d join Trump’s team. The Giants wound up buying out the Taylor/Trump contract for $750,000 and quadrupled Taylor’s salary, and Trump wound up with pages of publicity.

Trump’s approach was effective: the Generals improved to 14-4 in their sophomore season. But it also had a domino effect. In order to compete with the elevated bar of talent, other team owners began spending more, too. In a race to defray costs, the USFL approved six expansion teams that paid a buy-in of $6 million each to the league.

It did little to patch the seams. Teams were so cash-strapped that simple amenities became luxuries. The Michigan Panthers dined on burnt spaghetti and took yellow school buses to training camp; players would race to cash checks knowing the last in line stood a chance of having one bounce. When losses became too great, teams began to merge with one another: The Washington Federals became the Orlando Renegades. By the 1985 season, the USFL was down to 14 teams. And because the ABC contract required the league to have teams in certain top TV markets, ABC started withholding checks.

Trump was unmoved. Since taking over the Generals, he had been petitioning behind the scenes for the other owners to pursue a shift to a fall season, where they would compete with the NFL head on. A few owners countered that fans had already voiced their preference for a spring schedule. Some thought it would be tantamount to league suicide.

Trump continued to push. By the end of the 1984 season, he had swayed opinion enough for the USFL to plan on one final spring block in 1985 before making the move to fall in 1986.

In order to make that transition, they would have to win a massive lawsuit against the NFL.

In the mid-1980s, three major networks meant that three major broadcast contracts would be up for grabs—and the NFL owned all three. To Trump and the USFL, this constituted a monopoly. They filed suit in October 1984. By the time it went to trial in May 1986, the league had shrunk from 18 teams to 14, hadn’t hosted a game since July 1985, kept only threadbare rosters, and was losing what existing television deals it had by migrating to smaller markets (a major part of the NFL’s case was that the real reason for the lawsuit, and the moves to smaller markets, was to make the league an attractive takeover prospect for the NFL). The ruling—which could have forced the NFL to drop one of the three network deals—would effectively become the deciding factor of whether the USFL would continue operations.

They came close. A New York jury deliberated for 31 hours over five days. After the verdict, jurors told press that half believed the NFL was guilty of being a monopoly and were prepared to offer the USFL up to $300 million in damages; the other half thought the USFL had been crippled by its own irresponsible expansion efforts. Neither side would budge.

To avoid a hung jury, it was decided they would find in favor of the USFL but only award damages in the amount of $1. One juror told the Los Angeles Times that she thought it would be an indication for the judge to calculate proper damages.

He didn’t. The USFL was awarded treble damages for $3 in total, an amount that grew slightly with interest after time for appeal. The NFL sent them a payment of $3.76. (Less famously, the NFL was also ordered to pay $5.5 million in legal fees.)

Rudy Shiffer, vice-president of the Memphis Showboats, summed up the USFL's fate shortly after the ruling was handed down. “We’re dead,” he said.

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entertainment
The Time Douglas Adams Met Jim Henson
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John Gooch/Keystone/Getty Images

On September 13, 1983, Jim Henson and The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy author Douglas Adams had dinner for the first time. Henson, who was born on this day in 1936, noted the event in his "Red Book" journal, in characteristic short-form style: "Dinner with Douglas Adams – 1st met." Over the next few years the men discussed how they might work together—they shared interests in technology, entertainment, and education, and ended up collaborating on several projects (including a Labyrinth video game). They also came up with the idea for a "Muppet Institute of Technology" project, a computer literacy TV special that was never produced. Henson historians described the project as follows:

Adams had been working with the Henson team that year on the Muppet Institute of Technology project. Collaborating with Digital Productions (the computer animation people), Chris Cerf, Jon Stone, Joe Bailey, Mark Salzman and Douglas Adams, Jim’s goal was to raise awareness about the potential for personal computer use and dispel fears about their complexity. In a one-hour television special, the familiar Muppets would (according to the pitch material), “spark the public’s interest in computing,” in an entertaining fashion, highlighting all sorts of hardware and software being used in special effects, digital animation, and robotics. Viewers would get a tour of the fictional institute – a series of computer-generated rooms manipulated by the dean, Dr. Bunsen Honeydew, and stumble on various characters taking advantage of computers’ capabilities. Fozzie, for example, would be hard at work in the “Department of Artificial Stupidity,” proving that computers are only as funny as the bears that program them. Hinting at what would come in The Jim Henson Hour, viewers, “…might even see Jim Henson himself using an input device called a ‘Waldo’ to manipulate a digitally-controlled puppet.”

While the show was never produced, the development process gave Jim and Douglas Adams a chance to get to know each other and explore a shared passion. It seems fitting that when production started on the 2005 film of Adams’s classic Hitchhiker’s Guide, Jim Henson’s Creature Shop would create animatronic creatures like the slovenly Vogons, the Babel Fish, and Marvin the robot, perhaps a relative of the robot designed by Michael Frith for the MIT project.

You can read a bit on the project more from Muppet Wiki, largely based on the same article.

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