How to Get Arrested in Paris (Without Really Trying)
I brought the beard, the camera, and just enough attitude to make it stick.
I didn’t go to Paris to fall in love.
I went to get arrested.
Let that settle.
Not a drunken mishap. Not a protest gone sideways.
An actual job.
Unofficial. Paid in cash and bad ideas.
The goal: get arrested in various European cities, sneak photos inside police stations, and get the film home.
My tools?
A beard that could hide wildlife
A Cold War camera that clicked like arthritic castanets
A Canadian passport
And a bladder on the brink of mutiny
Because before the arrest came the real challenge:
Finding a toilet.
The Parisian Toilet Gauntlet (A Survivor's Guide)
Let me paint you a picture.
Toilets I encountered in Paris:
A pay-per-use pod that charged €1 and smelled like fermented sins
A café bathroom locked behind “CLIENTS ONLY” and a woman who looked like she enjoyed saying no
An alleyway “stall” that might’ve just been a cursed hole in the ground
A public urinal that was less “discreet facility” and more “open-air shame sculpture”
The scent?
Think: despair soaked in diesel and aged in gym socks.
My bladder was staging a coup d'état. The kidneys had defected.
And still—mission first.
I needed a cop.
The Gendarme & The Camera
Found one.
Standing like a puff pastry stuffed with rage outside a station.
Round. Red. Radiating authority like a balloon filled with vinegar.
He looked at me like I owed him child support.
Perfect.
I raised the camera.
Click.
The detonation was immediate.
“EH VOUS LÀ! BOUGEZ PAS! VOUS! VOUS! VOUS!”
His face went from rosé to Beaujolais boil.
He flailed like a flamingo in traffic.
His hands did that French Cop Thing™—slicing the air like he was chopping invisible cheese.
“IT IS FORBIDDEN! IL EST INTERDIT!”
I offered my best innocent-abroad smile. “Pardon, monsieur? My French is… how you say… merde.”
But then I dropped the act.
The Quebecois Rebellion
Out came the real me.
Not Paris French.
Not polite.
The North.
“Je donne pas mon caméra,” I said, quiet but locked.
His head twitched. Confused.
“Tu veux, tu m’arrêtes.
Mais tu me l’enlèves pas.
Tu me touches pas.”
He blinked like he was trying to solve math.
That French?
It doesn’t wear cologne.
It smells like sweat and winter.
It hunts moose and buries grandfathers.
And it pissed him off just enough.
Welcome to Hotel Paris Precinct
He took the bait.
Marched me inside.
Glory.
The precinct was everything I dreamed of:
Beige walls stained with failure
A single chair, held together by duct tape and depression
A wall clock ticking like it was judging me
The faint, permanent scent of stale Gauloises and regret
They booked me.
Asked questions.
I answered just enough to sound like I wasn’t a threat or too dumb to process.
The camera? Still mine.
The film? Already deep in my sock, curled up next to my toes like state secrets.
I waited. Wrote half a haiku in my head.
Got released six hours later.
Freedom (Still No Toilet)
Paris greeted me like nothing happened.
Sunlight. Sidewalk smoke. People sipping espresso like their city didn’t smell like filtered shame.
Mission: accomplished.
Toilet: still pending.
People back home called it brave.
Heroic. Even artistic.
Please.
I was 27. I had caffeine in my blood, wool socks on my feet, and a camera older than disco.
I didn’t even know how much danger I should have been in.
I just knew I had a job to do—and nowhere to pee.
fin