Best of sleepycity

On my first trip to Paris I arrived into Gare du Nord and entered the dense maze that is the metro. Despite the crowds, the noise and the distinct odour of piss, I was in love. The kind of love which inspires one to risk life, limb and deportation to get up close and personal.

qx and I sat upon a rusty gate staring vacantly down a rough asphalt road that veered not an inch far as the eye could see. It split the swamps neatly in two under a cloudy winter sky. Into the distance rotting power poles line the road, like a dead army of withered old men waiting for a good break in traffic. A chill wind spurred us to action and we dropped from the gate and began the hike.

Probing the edges of system late one night we found her, The One. That place in the system which sets itself apart from the rest. Like NYC's City Hall or Sydney's St James, this is Paris' jewel. An abandoned tunnel packed with the fading red and green of vintage Sprague rolling stock.

Were closer than you think, you and I. Weve passed within grasp upon the streets, late at night when the misty clouds of warm breath momentarily hang in the air. The paths of two wandering strangers intersect then diverge, threading through the thick shadows which creep from every crack and crevice; drifting like ghosts through the dim yellow islands that float below the sparse streetlights.

Wildeyed and hyperventilating, you turn terrified to face the lights racing down the tunnel. Thundering towards you swaying side to side like a loping predator, eyes blazing, comes a London Underground train.

The first stones were laid in 1758, which to gain proper perspective, was a dozen years before ol mate Captain James Cook the pied piper of convicts led us evil-doers across the seas and founded a great land on beaches, bbqs and walkinshaw commodores.

Steve D dropped from the sky into London town wrapped in casual black, crooning to Johnny Cash and as usual grinning teeth from ear to ear. Welcome to Londinium, mecca of the underground river. Eleven in fact, count them on yer fingers there banjo boy. Today well be concerned with one: The River Fleet.

I'd neatly copied a map of the surrounding tunnels onto a small scrap of paper folded in my chest pocket. In case of capture I was to eat the paper and claim we were looking for the bathroom. The Artline pen I'd used to make the map said the ink was non-toxic but considering the rest of the night's activities I don't know why I bothered to check.

Could you survive a week without gas, power and water? Could you find water without a tap, food without supermarkets? Like the tattered newspaper blown down the deserted high street your money is worthless, a remnant of a time more civilised and orderly.

qx and I launched from our hiding space like rapists from a shrub, sprinting out onto the viaduct. We charged towards the red monster looming larger above us with every stride. Our plan summarised simply as: charge it. Praeparo vestri testis.

Visible from from the city limits with its taunting gaze and mocking laugh, we knew deep down we could not resist. For months wed watched and waited noting the slow progress skywards. All the notches on our well-worn belts faded before this opportunity.

A balls deep look into the unbelievable tailrace tunnel behind the thundering falls of Niagara. 2 brits and 1 australian team up to abseil into this abandoned 9m tall, 100 year old brick tunnel. Grab a drink and get comfy, this is top shelf.