quantum-x and I punched fists, breathed deeply and climbed eagerly from the train tracks onto the deserted platform. With that first step it's all commitment. The dice are thrown the chips are down, just play it out. We embodied Yoda's words: "Do, or do not. There is no try".
There were no commuters, no hobos snoozing off their whisky in nests of litter and best of all no pesky station critters. The electronic signs showed no life at all so we'd missed the final train. What a shame. Like two casual commuters we strode across the platform averting our faces from the cameras above. Was a minimum wage secca staring intently at a computer, burning out his retinas for the chance to snatch a few rogue commuters? Was he kicked back snoozing off a content belly of cheese and booze or with any luck - absinthe? The answer would be known before we reached the platform's other end. We were already halfway.
An alarmed gate warded the tunnel from miscreants and the curious minded. We broke our pseudo legit this-station-is-ours walk to sway around it and march into the tunnel like we owned that to. Alone at 2am, we did.
Jackpot
Our unannounced arrival in the Paris RER was not accident or luck but a result of simple persistent searching. The beckoning portals declined our discreet attempts and workers at a lay up chased us away. This only fueled our hunger more since neither of us had been in the RER before. RER trains are faster and longer than their Metro counterparts so generally the stations are spaced further apart. As we walked the topic turned to the surprising lack of graffiti. Every second or third alcove framed chrome tags or the occasional throwup but compared to the thrashed Metro system the RER is clean. None of the graffiti looked recently sprayed.
The rails sang softly then the rumble of a diesel engine joined the industrial duet. A yellow work train rounded the corner in the distance and lumbered towards us. With no other movement in the tunnel and nothing remotely human shaped around we'd be incredibly easy to discern unless we found cover asap. The nearest alcove provided scant concealment for two, particularly with the striplight above us shining like a beacon yelling to the workers "Monsieur they're over here, I found them for you!"
The situation presented two problems. Firstly getting snapped isn't our style; secondly we were tucked low in the alcove looking like two hunchbacked squirrels spooning. It would be plain fucking embarrassing since obviously they wouldn't believe our missed-the-last-train story, and neither of us know how to say squirrel in French - just mimic eating nuts and climbing trees. A mental image grew of yelling rail workers perched high on the yellow train careening down the tunnel, curses flowing and baguettes held menacingly overhead chasing two giant squirrels. It's a project for the future.
The rumbling train shook the tunnel, drumming a monotonous rhythm louder and louder until suddenly the cantankerous train was upon us snorting diesel fumes into the air. I didn't dare to look up and expose my pasty brit complexion else the workers catch its gleaming reflection and nab us. The clamor of metal on metal squealing passed by and we peered out the alcove to see the little train shamble down our tunnel seeming far less scary than it did moments before.
Air Support
Our tunnel inclined noticeably then arced gracefully to the right and split in two. Sharing the junction was a large ventilation fan and accompanying shaft wrapped in catwalks and ladders disappearing upwards. This opportunity to make a comfortable exit was taken as the first trains would be leaving the yards soon. We tried to leave the exit accessible for another late night, a save point if you will but the damn grille just wouldn't seat right.
Word passed through the catacomb grapevine that most of the cata manholes were open. Some generous souls had shouldered the risk of manually opening the covers welded shut by the fliks. I mention this because last time the topic shocked some people who discovered that these manholes do not magically reopen themselves and were quick to flame on. How hypocritical of explorers to visit Paris, use manholes others had graciously opened then condemn the practise of opening them. Was their concern genuinely virtuous, and not simple online vanity and high horsery, I imagine these explorers demanded their cataphile guides only take them into the catas via manholes which have never been welded and consequently unwelded. Hypocrites.
Despite the ease of morally questionable unsealed manholes, Nel, quantum-x and I resisted the bandwagon charms of the catas and instead decided to investigate the underground section of the Canal St Martin. The canal was built in the 1800s under the order of Napoleon to provide drinking water to the Parisians.
St Martin
At the tunnel entrance the walkways which flank the canal are guarded by padlocked doors and metal walls protruding over the water. Someone was smiling on us, for the door was wide open. It's simply rude to refuse such gifts from the urbex gods, this was an opportunity to exploit! The stone arched tunnel is positively serene with the leisurely flowing water lit by intermittent skylights. Tourists boats sail up the canal, turn around halfway and cruise back. Our tour was far better.
Upstream we encountered workmen aboard a fine canal faring barge. They puttered over to us yelling something in french. Nel returned their volley with her usual enthusiasm sweet talking them into letting us be and calming their angry demeanor. Unfortunately she couldn't cajole us landlubbers board their vessel but they sent the Lockmaster from his little booth at the North end of the tunnel to collect us. He delighted in answering Nel's (I presume) flirtatious questions and escorted us out happily chatting to people who shared his interest for the canal.
Flection
Shouts out to quantum-x. The next trans-channel adventure will be bigger, better and scarier with more Metro, a little heavy industry and the omnipresent Parisian bakery treats. xoxo ds.
There were no commuters, no hobos snoozing off their whisky in nests of litter and best of all no pesky station critters. The electronic signs showed no life at all so we'd missed the final train. What a shame. Like two casual commuters we strode across the platform averting our faces from the cameras above. Was a minimum wage secca staring intently at a computer, burning out his retinas for the chance to snatch a few rogue commuters? Was he kicked back snoozing off a content belly of cheese and booze or with any luck - absinthe? The answer would be known before we reached the platform's other end. We were already halfway.
An alarmed gate warded the tunnel from miscreants and the curious minded. We broke our pseudo legit this-station-is-ours walk to sway around it and march into the tunnel like we owned that to. Alone at 2am, we did.
Jackpot
Our unannounced arrival in the Paris RER was not accident or luck but a result of simple persistent searching. The beckoning portals declined our discreet attempts and workers at a lay up chased us away. This only fueled our hunger more since neither of us had been in the RER before. RER trains are faster and longer than their Metro counterparts so generally the stations are spaced further apart. As we walked the topic turned to the surprising lack of graffiti. Every second or third alcove framed chrome tags or the occasional throwup but compared to the thrashed Metro system the RER is clean. None of the graffiti looked recently sprayed.
The rails sang softly then the rumble of a diesel engine joined the industrial duet. A yellow work train rounded the corner in the distance and lumbered towards us. With no other movement in the tunnel and nothing remotely human shaped around we'd be incredibly easy to discern unless we found cover asap. The nearest alcove provided scant concealment for two, particularly with the striplight above us shining like a beacon yelling to the workers "Monsieur they're over here, I found them for you!"
The situation presented two problems. Firstly getting snapped isn't our style; secondly we were tucked low in the alcove looking like two hunchbacked squirrels spooning. It would be plain fucking embarrassing since obviously they wouldn't believe our missed-the-last-train story, and neither of us know how to say squirrel in French - just mimic eating nuts and climbing trees. A mental image grew of yelling rail workers perched high on the yellow train careening down the tunnel, curses flowing and baguettes held menacingly overhead chasing two giant squirrels. It's a project for the future.
The rumbling train shook the tunnel, drumming a monotonous rhythm louder and louder until suddenly the cantankerous train was upon us snorting diesel fumes into the air. I didn't dare to look up and expose my pasty brit complexion else the workers catch its gleaming reflection and nab us. The clamor of metal on metal squealing passed by and we peered out the alcove to see the little train shamble down our tunnel seeming far less scary than it did moments before.
Air Support
Our tunnel inclined noticeably then arced gracefully to the right and split in two. Sharing the junction was a large ventilation fan and accompanying shaft wrapped in catwalks and ladders disappearing upwards. This opportunity to make a comfortable exit was taken as the first trains would be leaving the yards soon. We tried to leave the exit accessible for another late night, a save point if you will but the damn grille just wouldn't seat right.
Word passed through the catacomb grapevine that most of the cata manholes were open. Some generous souls had shouldered the risk of manually opening the covers welded shut by the fliks. I mention this because last time the topic shocked some people who discovered that these manholes do not magically reopen themselves and were quick to flame on. How hypocritical of explorers to visit Paris, use manholes others had graciously opened then condemn the practise of opening them. Was their concern genuinely virtuous, and not simple online vanity and high horsery, I imagine these explorers demanded their cataphile guides only take them into the catas via manholes which have never been welded and consequently unwelded. Hypocrites.
Despite the ease of morally questionable unsealed manholes, Nel, quantum-x and I resisted the bandwagon charms of the catas and instead decided to investigate the underground section of the Canal St Martin. The canal was built in the 1800s under the order of Napoleon to provide drinking water to the Parisians.
St Martin
At the tunnel entrance the walkways which flank the canal are guarded by padlocked doors and metal walls protruding over the water. Someone was smiling on us, for the door was wide open. It's simply rude to refuse such gifts from the urbex gods, this was an opportunity to exploit! The stone arched tunnel is positively serene with the leisurely flowing water lit by intermittent skylights. Tourists boats sail up the canal, turn around halfway and cruise back. Our tour was far better.
Upstream we encountered workmen aboard a fine canal faring barge. They puttered over to us yelling something in french. Nel returned their volley with her usual enthusiasm sweet talking them into letting us be and calming their angry demeanor. Unfortunately she couldn't cajole us landlubbers board their vessel but they sent the Lockmaster from his little booth at the North end of the tunnel to collect us. He delighted in answering Nel's (I presume) flirtatious questions and escorted us out happily chatting to people who shared his interest for the canal.
Flection
Shouts out to quantum-x. The next trans-channel adventure will be bigger, better and scarier with more Metro, a little heavy industry and the omnipresent Parisian bakery treats. xoxo ds.
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I look forward to your next trans-channel report! 
