Don’t Let the Bed Bugs Bite
Alarming reports of a bed bug infestation filled my social media feeds in the weeks before I flew to Paris for my birthday in mid-October. Images of these tiny blood suckers crawling on seats on public buses and trains horrified me. I’d been the victim of a bed bug attack 20 years earlier in an old hotel on rue du Dragon. Red bumps covered my arms, shoulders, and face and my co-workers shunned me for weeks. Fortunately, the little parasites did not embed themselves in my home so I was spared the nightmare of bed bug eradication. But I’ve been terrified of them ever since and took every precaution for this trip to Paris.
On arrival, I meticulously inspected every layer of bedding for the telltale signs of bed bug excrement, even going so far as flipping the mattress to inspect the reverse side in case the apartment owners were hiding the evidence. My luggage remained on a hard surface near the entrance for the remainder of my stay. On public transportation, I avoided sitting. When I returned home, I diligently followed a New York Times recommendation to put all my clothes in the dryer for 20 minutes. I even wrapped my suitcase in plastic and will store it in the basement for six months because apparently bed bugs can survive without a blood meal for that long! Bed bugs will survive the apocalypse along with the cockroaches. I’m sure the risks were inflated by the media, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
After completing the inspection, I was ready to flâneur. We strolled from our apartment in the 9th arrondissement to a restaurant in the 11th where I’d made a late dinner reservation, normally a 45-minute walk for which I allowed four hours. We popped into a men’s shoe store where the proprietor proudly explained that his sneakers were made entirely from leather, sat down at a café for an apéro, and meandered toward the Place de la République.
Place de la République is one of the larger squares in the city and has been a site for many political demonstrations and social movements throughout its history. A grand bronze statue of Marianne dominates the square. She is the personification of the French Republic and its ideals: liberté, egalité, fraternité.
We walked past a line of policemen clad in black and carrying riot shields toward a small crowd of people chanting in the middle of the square. When the police began throwing exploding cans of tear gas toward the protestors, we retreated at a quick pace but then began running with the crowd to escape the noxious fumes. I inhaled just enough to tickle my throat and irritate my eyes. When we reached the edge of the square, policemen blocked every street and sidewalk so no one could leave.
“We’re dumb American tourists!” I beseeched.
After a few tense moments, they waved us through and we continued toward the restaurant on a secondary street. I spied another crowd of people gathered on the sidewalk and could hear music emanating from a storefront. This time when I approached the crowd, I discovered a pop-up shop of Tunisian designers and artists. I left with a new light wool coat, two tops, and a long skirt in a fusion style that incorporated vibrant colors and patterns, reflecting Tunisia’s Berber, Arab, and Mediterranean influences.
