I Went Out for Bread and Ended Up Behind a Barricade

Like an idiot, I went out to buy bread around 2 p.m.

When I heard the first stun grenade, I rushed back upstairs to grab my camera and document whatever was going on.

My French life, basically—bread and protests.

After Act I, Act II and Act III, November 5 was the “grève générale”, aka the general strike. I wasn’t even sure who was striking or what would be closed, but since I didn’t need to take the train or drop off a kid at school, I wasn’t worried. Go ahead, strike, my friends, you have my full support, this world sucks.

“The gathering is at 10 a.m.,” I told my mum the night before.

“Don’t bother,” she advised wisely. “This is so CGT—early gathering, not much going on.”

I agreed with her. The CGT, France’s oldest union, is great at defending workers’ rights but they aren’t exactly party animals. Their style is handing out leaflets and grilling sausages on the BBQ, weather permitting. They also invariably shout very meaningful things using an ancient speaker no one can properly hear.

“So you’re not going?” Feng asked me later that night during our daily chat.

“Meh. I’ll go later. No one is going to show up at 10.”

“The carnival bloco syndrome. Everybody joins later.”

“Pretty much.”

By early afternoon, I thought the whole thing was over. We hadn’t heard anything from the apartment.

Except the party was just starting.

Two streets up, burning garbage cans made for a barricade.

I wasn’t sure where the protesters were coming from. Like, hello, I’m not on Telegram. But they were coming, which I didn’t mind.

I did mind the riot police, though. I ran and hid behind a barricade to watch the fight—rocks versus grenades, chanting versus tear gas.

Holy shit, it burns.

And that was pretty much my entire afternoon, playing hide-and-seek with the police, taking pictures. Camera in my right hand, bread in my left. Bread and barricades—ultimate French me.

The atmosphere was strange, with most shops closed, no trams or buses, but armoured military vehicles and clouds of tear gas.

Ah. And I thought November was a boring month.