Art, Opera & Burning Wheelie Bins

Loaded with sarnies to sustain the ten hour drive, I board the Flixbus with trepidation. Memories of the last time I bussed Paris to London flood back: an allergic reaction after overindulging on baba ganoush bought to accompany the final vraie French baguette; the blistering sun conjuring Camus-ian scenes.

However, today London is predictably grey and drab. I feel a surge of affection for the centre with its dirty bricks, rudely reflective glass and mish mash of contradicting buildings. An affection such as that you might feel towards your family for the first time as you leave home for good... It's time to get out of this goddamned country.

My mood soars at finding out we're getting let loose on the ferry, and what's more get a free meal. Then it immediately slumps at the sight of a mile-long queue made up of singularly unbearable school trip groups with their flushed teenage cheeks, unnecessary makeup (you don’t need foundation, you are eleven x) and traumatising social dynamics. I eat a horrible pizza and feel quite stressed.

But then the ferry announcement sounds and I'm filled with the invigorating tingle of excitement at hearing a foreign language and understanding it.

Imagining that air bnb host Pierre’s evening plans might get messed around due to the slimy folk over at Flixbus who had cancelled my original bus with less than 24 hours’ notice, I spent my time before and during my journey fretting and (in retrospect, embarrassingly) sending him a series of updates on my marginally shifting ETA. He kept replying variations of “that’s fine”, eventually shutting me up with "on t'attend calmement à la maison". Our hosts turned out to be a classic French couple (young woman, old man, the need to maintain physical contact with each other at all times) plus a 10-year-old son called Aaron, who is clearly accustomed to étrange air bnb’ers sharing his facilities. He's got the knack of politely avoiding eye contact, I discover, as I exit their bathroom, dishevelled and damp, wielding my worn pants a pink electric toothbrush. Merci pour la discretion kid.

The first day we embark on a canal-side walk from Jacques Bonsergent to La Villette. In case you've been living under a rock: the political situation is pretty tense right now in France. Macron pushed through a bill to raise the state retirement age from 62 to 64 and, in protest, rubbish collectors in major French cities are on strike. It’s almost comical walking past putrid piles of rubbish overflowing out of bins which foreground the romantic ornate balconies and dusty shuttered buildings of central Paris. As the trip progresses I begin to feel a bit short changed for not having witnessed more of the action. A classic case of not being careful what you wish for...

The first evening I attend a live stream of Lohengrin performed at the Met in Boston. Because I'm tired I keep dropping off, but fortunately the protagonist shares my name, so I get jerked back awake every few bars by a chorus screeching ELSA in deafening harmony. Probably not unusually for her nation, my good French friend is fatphobic af, so laughs at how large the American opera singers are. In her defence, as the way they tend to communicate heightened emotion is by flinging themselves on the floor, it is quite funny that Elsa doesn't have the ability to get herself back up again. Fortunately Wagner saves these swells in the drama until shortly before each entr'acte during which we can only assume she is righted by the rest of the cast.

During the second such entr'acte we leg it over to a little Greek restaurant (Lohengrin lasts over 4 1/2 hours, what are you meant to do?). There are no vegetarian main courses so I inhale some lentil soup and Diane orders us each an entire block of feta, as though that's a normal thing to do. Oh, the French and their fromage.

I spend a day flân-ning solo. Like a sucker, I find myself in the queue for Shakespeare and Co. standing next to a woman pretending to read a book for a photo. She can’t decide whether to look at the pages or the camera. I was instructed by my boss to come, so tell myself that this is all in the name of market research. In the reading room, everyone’s on their phones. I feel depressed, then buy a nice magazine.

My French friend meets me at Eugène Delacroix's house. She had admonished me for not recognising the name but after googling I realise he's responsible for the revolting Marianne with her - 'scuse my French - tits out. That painting isn't here; instead the museum is filled with furniture that « once belonged » to Delacroix; other artists' copies of his works; and quotes on the wall about the meaning of art and his 'method' that come across as gibberish both in version original and the English translation. One of the better artefacts is a chasse mouches (fly swat) from Morocco, to give you a sense of what they've got on offer.

Later we rendez-vous with a French couple who my housemate met on a bus in London, and who we had taken to a gig six months earlier. It was the first jazz Céline had ever heard, so we plan to take her to more. We therefore find Le Piano Vache where there is free gypsy jazz on a Monday night. Unfortunately it is so good that there is no space for Céline and Charles to get in when they arrive after us. My housemate and I are first directed to stand behind a (defunct) bar, where we perch on a mini fridge, before migrating to the front row after the first break. Django classics, red wine and a twinkly-eyed bassist make for a jolly ol' soirée.

C&C take great pains to find a vegan resto for my housemate's benefit, which involves travelling right across the city. Before our meal, we wander into the Sacré-Cœur and, in an athletic move not dissimilar to some I’ve performed in ballet barre fit classes, the pair drop to their knees and cross themselves. Everyone at the restaurant is an American. Dinner is seitan "bœuf" bourguignon followed by tarte tintin. Not too shabby considering French cuisine is usually pure butter and meat.

Another day, another dead artist's house. Victor Hugo's is much more up my street and, if you consider that guy a maximalist for his wordy books, his interior design taste takes this to another level. He built a lot of his own furniture, designing panelling based on Chinese art and including witty in-jokes like putting Chinese characters reading Shu-zee or something beneath a fish, because his cook with that name loved eating it. Beneath his bust they have a sign specifically outlawing selfies. Ô, the modern world.

On my last night I find myself at another opera (I suspect Diane has misgivings over my cultural education at home in London). The show is live this time: Ambroise Thomas' Hamlet. For some unexplained reason there are small screens behind the stage showing clips of a Godard film. The surtitles aren't working and there is little leg-room despite the extortionate cost of our seats. "Sure I’d say operas just aren’t as great craic when they’re not in German," Diane summarises. (She learnt English off an Irish boyfriend.) A highlight of the Wagner had been the line "was machst du hier?" which is a completely normal sentence (what are you doing here?), the language just sounds inexplicably funny to us (we met doing a language course in Dresden). Especially when elongated over melisma and sung by someone wearing a costume.

In the interval we weave through Botox-filled women in shiny dresses to spread out and, in my case, eat some clumps of cheese left over from my picnic lunch, pulled off the block with my fingers. Diane suffers from wind because of the whole being pregnant thing. Heck yeah, cultural education.

We emerge from the opera house onto a road that reeks of melting plastic. The anarchists of Paris are out and they're setting fire to all the déchets that have conveniently been accumulating. Ducking into the metro to shield Diane and Unborn Child, we’re confronted by a row of policemen, whose smiles turn to grimaces as they eye up my nose ring and scuffed trainers. Tear gas glints in one’s vest and another lovingly cradles her gun.

I feel genuinely scared but need to get to my housemate who has our key, so I head back overground and down an alternative route, straight into a squadron of riot police. A text arrives from Diane: "Be careful with the police, you look like a little leftie." I circle back, passing disparate groups of people and restaurant owners frantically packing everything away and boarding up their windows. The stench of plastic intensifies as I get closer to Bastille. A sense of excitement and danger buzzes in the rancid air.

I retreat back to the metro in an attempt to pass underneath the violence. The smell has invaded even down here, each train carries another poisonous waft along in its wake. Anxious metro-takers look dubiously at each other to see if anyone knows better than them whether it’s safe to get on. All the carriages are rammed full but hordes of hostile-looking youths disembark, heading for the trouble.

At the stop where I resurface the situation is just as bad. The bar where my housemate has been performing at an open mic is slap bang in the centre of the chaos. I slip across a road between lines of badly coordinated CRS (riot police) and people in balaclavas, dodging burning wheelie bins to eventually arrive as the owner locks the door and pulls curtains over the bar so that it looks shut. In desperation I bang on the glass and plead to be let in. He checks with me whether I'm a casseur and once I've assured him I'm not, I'm just trying to get downstairs to where the music happens, I am let in.

The basement of Nul bar ailleurs is populated by a cool crowd of musicians having a singalong in total ignorance of the hellscape surrounding them. They're almost literally singing Bob Marley and holding hands. Once I've killed the mood by showing around a couple of photos like the one above, we decide to head home. Back out into the flames and fear. We treck over to Gare du Lyon and are relieved to bus back to the safe suburb of Vitry-sur-Seine.

Back in London, I'm really happy to see some empty dustbins. Asked how my trip was I surprise myself by replying that I feel like I've been run over. A la prochaine, Paris.