After 2 nights in the hostel, I started to notice itchy patches of bug bites on my skin. I ascribed it to mosquitos: I was spending a fair amount of time walking around outside, and a fair amount of that walking had been through the vegetation of Pere Lachaise.
It wasn’t until my 4th night, making the 4th bed I’d had in as many nights, that it suddenly occurred to me that bedbugs were a more likely culprit than mosquitos. My suspicions seemed confirmed when I woke at 3AM to fresh itching. It seemed to me that no matter how I lay, I opened myself up to being bitten.
I only intended to stay 5 nights, and I was already there for the 4th. Only one and a half more nights, I told myself.
I rolled over and a fresh patch of bites revealed themselves on the upper arm that had been below me.
Suddenly, the thought was inescapable. This place had bedbugs. I was sleeping in a nest of bedbugs. I thought back to the beds and the bedclothes. Nothing had seemed obviously infested. The rooms were tidy, the mattress covers perfectly white, the bedclothes freshly laundered.
At last I could no longer bear the thought of another night in the hostel, and decided that it was worth the money if I could just not get any fresh bites for my final night.
It was with that thought that I reserved a hotel room across Paris for my 5th night. I chose a place that had the earliest check-in time I could find among affordable-ish options, and paid as much for that 1 night as I had for the 5 nights in the hostel.
In the morning, I checked out without breakfast.
“But you have one more night,” the staff at reception said to me.
“I decided to leave early,” I said simply.
I did not mention bedbugs. I had seen no confirmation—although, admittedly, I didn’t look very hard, too worried of the distress confirmation would cause.
I simply left, and took my things across town.