The Paris catacombs are a place dear to my heart. Born in this very city, I had a front row seat to see it turn into a giant museum. Every wealthy asshole wanting his own piece of the “city of lights,” and Paris being one of the most visited cities in the world, I could see year after year the streets taken over by luxury clothing shops and expensive venues. The middle and lower classes have been pushed aside by rising living costs so that the rich globalists, the bobos and a never-ending trail of tourists could stroll around.
Yet, go twenty meters below the Haussmanian hurdle, and you will find something very different.
South of the Seine, the lands have been deeply dug to extract building stones. Most of the voids have been filled since, but more than a hundred kilometres of quarries galleries are still there. Exploring the place is officially forbidden. Which is a good thing, as one can go there unofficially, provided one knows how to enter and not get lost in the labyrinth, without bothering with swarms of tourists or wasting money in an overpriced bar.
Officially prohibited, actually more or less self-managed by a loose community of cataphiles, the Catacombs are one of the most interesting places today in Paris. It allows for genuine explorations and friendly meetings while also teaching some masculine virtues to those who venture there seriously.
The underground network being fragile and the officials not enjoying when too many visitors tread on their jurisdiction, the cataphiles have a complex relationship with exposing it. On the one hand, we like to show the place and share its atmosphere with passionate newcomers; on the other, we are afraid that too much exposition will attract too many visitors and stifle the officials’ relative toleration for unofficial activities.
Well, today, other cataphiles won’t chastise me for mentioning the topic in public, for this has been already made recently by an attention whore of international scope. Alison Teal, a Hawaiian 28 or 29 years old girl, made a show of herself down there and sent ludicrous photos to the Daily Mail.
Here we are not talking about attention whoring lightly. The Daily Mail photos already tell much: a blond girl in a pink bikini carries a pink surfboard in a narrow underground network where there is, by definition, no waves to surf at all, to take some photos of herself, herself, herself, and a bit of the catacombs, as they could be used as the setting of the latest of Alison’s Adventures™. I’m not joking. These “adventures” are literally Hitler a trademark.
Since she was at least 18, Teal seems to have taken advantage from the nomadic lifestyle of her parents to make photos, movies, and promote herself heavily along the way. With the help of her dad, a well-connected photographer and self-promoter who claims to master yoga, she got a bunch of awards and media promotion. Long-haired Alison was thus handed a niche that allows her to travel the world, take pictures of herself in various places, and claim to be concerned about the environment.
Her résumé shows a massive ego associated to minor lies. “The world was my school and playground”—I guess smaller places would be too small for her giant ego, and this may explain why she suffered from claustrophobia under Paris, as we are to see below. Between name-droppings, references to media awards and other big pictures of Alison, Teal, and Alison Teal, we learn she was styled “the ‘Female Indiana Jones’ by Time Magazine (2015) and the ‘Oprah of Adventure’ by The Huffington Post (2016).” Really?
Actually, Teal said to the HuffPo she aspired to be “the Oprah of adventure” in 2014 before branding herself as “the female Indiana Jones” to the Time a year later (2015, not 2016). Then she said on Twitter and on her résumé how they had referred to her as such. Not a big lie, but a lie indeed. By the way, she also branded herself a “Tarzan child” in the HuffPo interview. Would someone who really “grew up in the wild” be so obsessed with linking herself to famous icons?
So, self-styled “female Indiana Jones,” no less, went through what seems to be a joint undertaking with the Daily Mail by descending into the Paris catacombs with the symbols of her Adventures™, namely a pink bikini and a surfboard. The English tabloid released the photos, video, and testimony of Indiana-Jones-In-A-Bikini-Surfing-The-Catacombs the 30th of October. Days after, a bunch of French outlets copied the Mail content, often translating it verbatim.
What struck me first are the stunning inaccuracies the tabloid published. First, the Mail claims Teal went 150 meters below the ground, whereas the actual depth of the Catacombs goes between 10 and 30 meters depending on where you are in the network. Can’t Indiana Jane tell the difference between 30 and 150 meters?
Second, she also claimed to have lacked oxygen and witnessed the water level suddenly rising. This is at best extremely unlikely. The water levels can change from month to month and even from week to week, but to my knowledge it never changes abruptly in seconds. As for the oxygen issue, I have witnessed some only two times: at a big party, when so many people were in the same room that there was not enough oxygen to light a cigarette, and from claustrophobic newcomers who could not stand the place.
Either she completely made up the sudden water change and oxygen issues in order to give her story a sensational aspect, or, more likely, got a panic attack due to claustrophobia, but preferred to twist it into a grandiose plot rather than acknowledging her own limitations. The Mail just ate that up and published without question. They did not ask any actual cataphile for sure. Had they done so, anyone with a decent experience of the catacombes could have told them what I just wrote above.
I also noticed from her quotes that she does not mention anyone from her crew, gives no credit to the men who opened the manhole cover, helped her go down the humid ladder, showed her the way, filmed her… She would never have found the entrance if no one already in the know had accepted to be her guide. Neither could she lift manhole covers of more than a hundred kilograms with her thin arms—even the round butt she likes to display couldn’t do that.
I could bet she did not have sex with any of the guys who enabled her display to happen. As Julius Evola hinted, she is likely the kind of woman to whom “the possibilities of physical love are often not as interesting as the narcissistic cult of her body, or as being seen with as many or as few clothes as possible” (Evola, Revolt Against the Modern World, chap.20).
In this respect, the only thing that makes Teal “special” compared to all other look-at-me twats is the adventurous label she tries to put on herself. Exploiting people and places to garner attention is definitely not special. Yet, a lot of comments have noticed this behind the weird mix of glamour and pseudo-adventure: some are offended that she treaded on bones, i.e. remnants of real past men, in a pink bikini. Doing so is not only a proof of bad taste and self-aggrandizing mania—it is also utterly disrespectful.
This is indeed a blatant example of pussy pass. Imagine going to Hawaii, bringing a skateboard at a local cemetery and start skateboarding over the graves in a pink thong. What do you expect would happen? You would probably get beaten by locals, and if the media gave you attention at all, they would label you as a disturbed troll or something like that. All this, I think, would be fair. But when a self-important Oprah Jane of super-adventure does the same, the mainstream media reacts completely differently and celebrates her without the least hint of criticism.
Though she treading and surfing on bones of actual past people is not very respectful for sure, I think especially appalling the outlook Teal seems to carry on the place. The Catacombs are just another background for Alison Adventures™. Whole places, some loaded with historical and spiritual significance, are reduced to a set for the egotic show of another vapid character. The entire world was her school, or so she said, meaning that the world is turned into a mixture of Disneyland and Hollywood studio where her picture can stroll around.
Usual newcomers to the Catacombs come there with a genuine interest in the place. They come to find out, sometimes drink, and have an actual adventure. They cannot help but feel some humility, perhaps even awe, when meeting with the bones of millions of nameless dead, most if not all of them having lived before the nineteenth century, and having been carried there so that Paris could grow.
This is very different from using the place to play adventure, treading on bones in a rather inappropriate outfit, depending on a crew of real cataphiles but forgetting to give them the slightest credit, and showing utter carelessness to the historical and spiritual significance of the place, all so that Alison’s Ego Adventures™ Show continues.
As you can see above, a lot of the comments are negative—especially those from cataphiles—and Teal has discreetly withdrawn the video of her trail from YouTube, putting it into private mode.
Teal’s circus has at least one merit: it symbolizes pretty well one of the worst aspects of the Westernization of the world. In the West, there is no wilderness, no sacredness, no magic. There are tons of potential places for tourism, but ultimately, all these places are losing their soul and turning into Disneylands. The Catacombs are worth it because they are definitely not so, and should never be.
Fortunately, there can be some immanent justice. The wave of criticism under Teal’s disrespectful show is well deserved. More harshly, a young libtard who thought she could hitchhike through Middle East to prove Muslims peaceful got raped and killed by the “peaceful” ones she theatrically claimed to care about. The event shew, or should have shown, that the world is not a giant kindergarten for Western “strong and independent” narcissists.
In a world of self-marketing and self-centred cunts, everyone is too busy caring about one’s image and about meaningless representations to truly care about a place or about family members.
Truly respectable women are not the ones we spot the most easily, and true cataphiles are often discreet as well.