Or, the Case of Icky, Creepy Crawly Things

I have an extreme phobia of bugs that bite. I’m talking mosquitoes, flies, fleas and gnats. And as anyone living in New York might know by now, our great city has been besieged by small, lentil-sized bugs that leave itchy welts during the night and hide in between pages of books, cracks in the floor and in every little hole or crevice that you never knew existed. Yes, they’re bed bugs, and unless you’ve been hiding under a rock for the past year (bed bug-free, I hope), you know about NYC’s not so little infestation. Perhaps you’ve even had a friend or two recount the nightmarish stories of these impossible critters taking over their lives. I wouldn’t wish them on my worst enemy. (God forbid you might actually have to be in their presence: a bug might hitch-hike onto you.)

That all being said, I slipped my very-real fears into the darkest corners of mind, even as I boarded the plan bound for Morocco, keeping within my sight the vision of dancing tagines, endless cups of mint tea and the overwhelming din of the souk sellers. Topaz-tinted skies and the beating sun after a seemingly endless New York City winter would be a fine anesthetic to keep even the split-second thought of bed bugs from scurrying across the clean and blissful slate of my mind. Until I actually saw one. For the first time. In bed. With me.

And there I was: lying in bed in this beautiful riad-style hotel (Maison du Sud) in the heart of Essaouira, reading The Sheltering Sun, and feeling this sort of poetic restlessness after traveling all day, constipated but invigorated by the salty smell of the ocean. I was dozing off, and feeling a slight chill, I slowly pulled the crisp white sheet to my chin, in the process setting free the carcass of a lone brown, lentil-sized bug. It fell onto the bed and laying there on a background of white, it looked like a freckle on porcelain skin. I stared at it blankly. I could feel a tightening in my chest, my breath quickening. I touched the bug, tossed it over from front to back, back to front. I squinted at it, not allowing myself just yet to believe it was a bed bug. But there it was: the classic reddish-brown color, the flat back with tiny ridges. My hysteria must have reached an audible crescendo because my bleary-eyed friend, not pleased that she had been awakened by my irrational whimpering, came to my bed, admonished me for my panic and blithely said, “You can’t see bed bugs, it’s probably just a tick.”

With that I leapt out of bed, and ran downstairs to tell the night clerk. He probably thought I was a silly Westerner afraid of dirt and bugs and nature, and so he matter-of-factly explained to me in French and gesticulation, that the bugs come from the many roses planted around the riad. “Somehow,” he said, “they must have come into your bed.” How romantic. To further allay my fears, he served me tea, and together we sipped and chatted in a broken mix of French (which I don’t speak), English and gestures, until I had calmed down, doubting myself and the chaos I had caused. The tea was a balm and the gesture itself was kind and familiar. It made me laugh in spite of myself.

Feeling more than a little embarrassed, I went back upstairs, first asking the night clerk (let’s call him Sidi Riad Man, or SRM) to come with me and check the mattress for more bugs. We saw none, and as my cheeks reddened, I laughed nervously and bid him, “Bonne nuit.”

But as I lay there in bed, I imagined legions of bed bugs marching slowly toward my tired, suntanned body exclaiming, “Okay bugs, go get her!” In a panic, I clicked the lights on to check the bed—again—and attempt to calm my fears. And there, under the right corner of the mattress, I saw more bed bug carcasses and their feces (tiny black spots) spotting the box frame. Telltale signs of a bed bug infestation.

In a fit of tears, I once again ran downstairs and told the SRM in shamefully bad French and some English and wild gesticulations: Bugs! (make crawling movements with fingers like itsy-bitsy spider) Coucher ici! (point to lounge seat) No dormir! (point upstairs toward room).  All the while, shaking my head, crying, feeling small—very small. Again, in gestures and English and French, I explained to him that I would not sleep in any bed in the hotel—lest the bugs be there as well—and that I would sleep instead in the hotel lounge in a makeshift bed. He obliged me in my hysterics, making a bed with sheets and pillows. I lied down in it, only to realize that there was another problem: SRM.

As I lie there, I had the acute sense that SRM was calculating how he would join me in my makeshift bed. I pretended to be asleep all the while. But in the middle of the night, he came to my side, “Clara, Clara! C’est froid, c’est tres froid!” Well, I knew enough French to know what he was saying and what he was doing. In the dark, I could make out his hands motioning to get under the covers with me. I heard him say “temps,” perhaps to say “just for a short time” or even “it’s about time.” In a fit of anger, I said to him in nothing but English: “This is a hotel! There are hundreds of blankets here!” And with that, I ripped off one of my own blankets and threw it over to the other side of the room. “ICI!”

It was his turn to nervously laugh, and he returned to his side of the lounge, where he tried to go to bed. What a night: Between the bed bugs in my room and the very big human bug downstairs, I had survived a nightmare—somehow, with no bites. The tea had made me let my guard down, but of course it didn’t help that in make-shift French I had screamed “Coucher!” which I now know means to f*ck (thanks Y and M!). So instead of screaming, “Bed Bugs! I’ll sleep here! I won’t sleep upstairs!” I sceamed: “Bed bugs! I’ll f*ck here! No sleep upstairs!”

No wonder SRM tried to get in bed with me. Poor confused bastard.