Enter: le moustique

I suppose it’s only fitting that I spent my entire first night in France engaged in heated battle with a mosquito, and – of course – emerged on the losing end.

There’s nothing worse than the shrilling buzz of a mosquito coming to suck your blood, giving you that awful bump to haunt and pain you for days to come. I tried everything to free myself from his wrath: killing him, but it was too dark and I too slow; hiding under the sheets, but it was simply too hot; leaving the room in hopes that he’d follow me, then running back in and shutting the door to keep him out – but he inevitably found me again. I even bundled up in my hoodie, tying the drawstrings tight around my face to protect my skin, but nothing worked. Every time I dared to think me free of him, I’d feel him nibbling my ankles or hear the dreaded ring of his approach. My only hope was that he’d suck enough of my blood that he’d A) be full, or B) explode. I preferred fantasizing about the latter.

He didn’t bugger off until 6:00am, and I have the bites to prove it. At about the same time, the sun rose to reveal to lizards clinging to the glass doors by my head. I feel like I’m being attacked (again). (And strangely, there’s something comfortingly familiar about it.)


p.s. I am ridiculously sore. What made me think I could handle 150lbs of luggage by myself?