Bugging Out

I’m up at 6 am because I’m worried. There are myriad things I could be worried about this morning, like whether being a continent away from my husband for six months will stress our marriage, whether my money will stretch far enough in crazy-expensive Stockholm, whether I’ll be successful and well-liked in my new workplace. But no, these aren’t the topics I’m currently concerned about.

I awoke scratching furiously at a constellation of welts on my wrists and ankles, and now I’m actually crawling around my bed, scanning the sheets by the light of my dim little lamp… for bedbugs.

If you aren’t a New Yorker, you may not be aware of the widespread nature of our city’s tiny scourge. It’s really not something we like to talk about, but here’s the truth: Far from being isolated to the college dorms and tenement buildings you might expect, bed bugs are the shame of the upper middle class here, afflicting hipsters, bankers and socialites alike. From what I can glean from the whispers in my circle of contacts, the publishing industry has been hit particularly hard. Two close writer friends had to jettison the contents of their apartments last year because of the bloodsuckers, and reliable gossipers have told me that the editor-in-chief of a way-too-pretty-for-bugs women’s magazine also had them recently.

My mom used to tuck me in by saying, “Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite!” and of course in suburban Maryland that’s just good fun. What the hell is a bedbug, anyway? I don’t think anyone really knew. Well, let me tell you, mothers in New York do not joke about bedbugs. The very thought of them is nightmare-inducing, and as a city, we’re collectively already paying massive therapy bills.

I’m not just idly freaking out—the insect situation has hit pretty close to home. Last month, two apartments in my building had bedbugs, and our unscrupulous landlord decided that the best (ie. cheapest) solution would be to spray the affected apartments, but no others. Never mind that the critters typically spread through a building by crawling through baseboard cracks. Never mind that the buggy mattresses in question were propped, uncovered, against the tree that shades our lobby door—a perfect springboard for the creepy crawlies to hop onto passersby and hitchhike back inside. Slightly traumatized but unwilling to add another element of stress to my already-brimming life, I determined that the appropriate course of action would be simply to fly to New Mexico and pretend the incident never happened. But now….

What if I take bedbugs to Stockholm? If I’ve got them, they’re for sure in my luggage already. My flight is just hours away—there’s no time to steam clean the suitcases and everything in them. Maybe I could score some DEET at the bodega across the street? What if Sweden is one of those places like Hawaii that’s been blissfully scourge-free until now, and I’m the Typhoid Mary who introduces freaking bedbugs. Not only will I be a confrontational, materialistic, excessive American, I’ll be the one famous for unleashing microscopic disease carriers on Scandinavia. And it’s the Bonnier family’s apartment! Jonas Bonnier will be personally notified that I’ve had to call in a bed bug specialist. Some priceless piece of Swedish publishing memorabilia that’s been on display in the apartment for a century will likely be placed on the street in front of my building with a sign that reads “infested.” Or rather “angripande.”

But wait a minute, have you ever seen Swedish backpackers? I’ve been to Thailand. I would totally not be the first shaggy blond ever to carry beg bugs into Stockholm Arlanda Airport. The Swedes know how to deal with this. There’s probably some environmentally friendly spray in well-designed, ergonomic packaging sold specifically for this purpose. Actually, I don’t even see any black specks on the sheets. Is that a mosquito on the wall? Holy shit. I’m going back to sleep.