About them bones

As I mentioned when we last spoke, I recently (like, last week I think) took a tour of the catacombs underneath Stephansdom, Vienna’s iconic landmark. It was some morbid fun, I’ll say that.

I learned the following: that prior to the 18th century, every God-fearing Wiener was entombed underneath the cathedral in a pine box; that the place directly under the huge golden altar is occupied by the Duke of something, who founded the catacombs, and his extended family, with coffins matching their body shape when they died; that arch bishops still get placed under the church when they die; that high church officials had their internal organs removed and shipped out to various churches – the hearts to one, the digestive tracts to another, the brains to yet another – in ceremonial jars, Egypt-style; that when the catacomb started to run out of space, convicts were employed to break open the coffins, remove the bones, and stack them like firewood to compress the departed; that the catacomb was finally closed sometime in the 19th century because the smell was so overpowering within the church that people weren’t attending.

Why is death so fascinating?

Our tour guide was a very friendly Wiener who spoke fluent English (like many Wieners). Our tour group was bilingual, so he gave all the explanations first auf Deutsch and then in English. Most of the time this was very helpful, since it gave me some modicum of German practice, but every once in a while I felt like the Ausländer were getting shortchanged: he’d ramble on for several minutes in German, then turn to us and say in English, “That’s the boneyard.” Thankfully I picked up enough between my understanding of German and my vivid imagination to make due.

Your vocab word for today: ossuary.

Soren, who accompanied Kelly and I on the tour, had earlier told us a story about a similar tour he’d taken years ago with a whole throng of other American students. Several of the girls in his group decided they wanted a souvenir from the wall of bones, and were purposefully lagging behind the main group in order to snag one. The tour guide had seen their ilk before, though, and caught them before they could burgle any bones. Recalling this tale as we waited in line for the tour to begin, I told Kelly that she’d better emerge with from the darkness with a human femur or not at all; any pussy can steal a mandible or a toe, I expected more from someone of her aptitude. She didn’t attempt any theft, of course, but we definitely copped a feel of a bone or two lying within easy reach of the iron bars separating the path from the actual bone depositories. Even more daring, we violated the golden rule of tours and photographed one of the rooms while Soren kept a lookout. Like always, photographic evidence forthcoming.

It’s probably for the best that Kelly didn’t steal me a femur. I’m not sure how I’d explain that to customs officials.