In what sort of weird or unusual places have you ever spent the night? I’ve slept in many dwellings around the world in my globetrotting expat life, even in a place of worship, a chapel in Italy. I’ve bedded down in odd and not so odd places such as (to name just a few) the former guesthouse of an African president, a French horse stable, a dilapidated English colonial settler’s house in Kenya, a lovely apartment in Italy inside an ancient building with a wall dating from the 12th century (see photo on the left), splendid Spanish castles (paradores), and in a tent in a bush clearing in Uganda with the warning sign:




Once my man and I crashed through a bed, the framework collapsing loud and dramatically under us as we lay down. We were in a small hotel in Ouagadougou, the capital of Burkina Faso in West Africa. We were on our way to Niamé, Niger to visit friends doing Good Works in the desert.

The Ouagadougou hotel was run by a Frenchwoman, highly bleached, bejeweled and made-up, wearing a mini-skirt. I know what you are thinking. Well, who knows. Madame had a green parrot on her lovely shoulder and was chatting away in sexy French to a friend in the hotel bar when we arrived. The bar doubled as the lobby, a convenient use of space. With a drink in her manicured hand and the big bird perched on her shoulder, Madame looked deliciously exotic to me. The whole scene looked like something from a movie. Can’t you just see it?

Our room was not exotic, but it was cheap. We did not belong to the five-star-hotel tribe, so it was fine. Then the bed collapsed. Which was also fine, because it was funny. Our two-year-old daughter said so. She laughed and laughed. I later worked the experience into a romance novel (One More Time), where of course the hero and heroine crashed through the bed while about to engage in a bit of sexual congress (maybe). Anyway, we dragged the mattress off the broken frame, shoved the wreckage aside and the three of us went to sleep.

Warning: The rest is not for the faint of heart. Read on at your own risk.

Then there was the time we spent a night in a deserted “guesthouse” out in the middle of nowhere in Ghana, West Africa. We’d checked in earlier that day, and the door had been left unlocked for our return that evening, since no one would be in attendance until morning.

After visiting friends living in a tiny house in a distant village, we arrived back at the guesthouse after dark. Dark as in very, very pitch black dark. No moon. No electricity in miles around. My man and I (baby in arms) found our way in, our feet crunching eerily on something unseen in the hallway, hearing scuttling noises. Finally having excavated my flashlight (torch) from the depths of my cavernous bag, we saw the gruesome scene before us: thousands of panicky cockroaches scurrying in all directions, leaving behind the corpses of their loved ones, the ones we had massacred under our feet.

CockroachesNo, I did not take this picture. It was even worse than this…

And now you wonder if we stayed and slept there? Yes, we did. It was too late and too far back to our friends’ house. The three of us spending the sweltering tropical night in our tiny Ugly Duckling Citroen with the windows closed to keep the malarial mosquitoes out was a worse nightmare. So we ventured forth to our bedroom and found it marginally more bug free there. We made the bed with our own bedding, tucked in the mosquito netting as tight as we could and hoped it kept the roaches out too. (Okay, this was decades ago. When we lived in Ghana again more recently, we did not hear of, or encounter, accommodations of such crunchy standards.)

In the early years of our marriage we had more such interesting disgusting bed-time encounters. While living in a huge dilapidated colonial settler’s house in a mud hut village in Kenya, East Africa, we were once awakened by something jumping on our bed. We sat up, shone our flashlight around and found two evil red rodent eyes glaring at us from a corner of the huge fireplace. A rat. It scampered away not to be found. (You may be entertained by reading about another close encounter with a rat we had in this story.)

Kenya at night

A year earlier in the same country we lived in a cute little house in a small town. Electricity, running water, the works! Returning home late one night from a two-week poor-man’s safari through the game parks, we rolled into bed, dead tired, and went to sleep.

Until we woke up, itching and scratching. And finding, on closer inspection, that during our absence our bed had been made good use of by trespassers and was filthy and crawling with bed bugs. Let me spare you the rest of this repulsive story.

I’ve had enough; haven’t you?

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Your turn: Tell me your bed time stories! In what creepy, fancy or unusual places have you bedded down?



OMGSomething creepy happened to me while I was innocently living the expat life in Moldova a few years ago. Yes, Moldova is a country. The capital is Chișinau (I thought you might want to know.) It’s not at all a creepy country, just to be clear. I was quite happy there. Lots of good wine, for one thing. It was just what happened that was, well . . . read on and I’ll tell you the story.

OMG! What is this?

After my nightly shower in my lovely Italian bathroom here in Moldova I make an unpleasant discovery: A tiny dark alien thing has taken up residence at the top of my left leg, in the groin area. There’s not supposed to be anything dark and alien sitting there, and certainly not after a shower. I try to brush it away, but it doesn’t budge and to my utter disgust I see it’s a bug, and it’s stuck, and yes, it’s a black tick.

In that place? How in the world did it get there? I did not dally in any forests lately, naked or otherwise.

Dallying in the forest, or The Dream by Henri Rousseau

I did not leave the centru of Chișinau, where I live. I did not even sit on the patio today because it was too hot. And no, I do not dry my clothes by spreading them out on the ground or on bushes.

At my wails of dismay, my prince, already in bed, leaps to may aid. He checks out the creature with the magnifier, and yes, it’s a tick, wiggly legs and all. Time for the computer. We Google Moldova and ticks and it’s not pretty what comes up. You should try it. Ever heard of Crimean-Congo Hemorrhagic Fever? Symptoms include fever, vomiting, bleeding on the roof of the mouth, stuff like that.

Now, I am a writer and have a fertile imagination and I am sure you can imagine the scenarios going through my head, so I won’t elaborate on them. I won’t even look for photos on the subject. I may never sleep again.

NOTE: Yes, I know, ticks are everywhere, and being impaled by one is not necessarily a typical expat experience, but bear with me.

We find instructions on how to remove a tick, also on the computer. (Have a look, it’s charming.) We hunt down some tweezers, but I have no alcohol or other disinfectant stuff, because I didn’t ship them when we moved to Moldova, thinking I’d buy them when I got there. Then I didn’t buy them. But we do have a bottle of vodka left by the landlord, so we splash that on my private area (a new experience for me), and wipe the tweezers with it.

Then my man goes in for the kill, or rather the extraction of the varmint. Unfortunately, despite following graphic instructions on the computer screen, the tick won’t let go and ends up being ripped in half. After plucking more bits and pieces of the rest of the corpse from my skin, we have to give up. The head is still in there. It is 11 in the evening and we decide to wait till morning to see if we’ll need an ambulance and then go from there.

Somehow I manage to sleep and in the morning the scene of the crisis still looks the same and I decide to avail myself of the services of Medpark, a brand new international hospital. I taxi over there and present myself at the desk. I show the cheery young woman behind it the decapitated tick corpse resting on a piece of cotton that I had sequestered in a plastic baggy. She speaks lovely English, and takes charge of me.

Not the skirt I was wearing, but this one made a better picture.

Within ten minutes I am in an examining room with two non-English speaking doctors in green surgery garb. Yes, two, not one. They are good-looking types, like you see on TV shows like Grey’s Anatomy, or ER, which is always reassuring, don’t you think? I hike up my skirt and show them my groin, feeling so elegant and delicate doing this.

I’m asked where I got this thing. Had I been in the woods or out in the countryside? They are amazed when I tell them nu! No, I’ve only been here in the centru of town.

I am told it is good that I came because the head should be removed. I am instructed to lie down on the examining table. One of the docs disappears and is replaced by a nurse. Miss English is still with me, gently assuring me all will be fine and the operation won’t take long, and am I feeling all right? I tell her I am fine, I am very tough.

The team gets ready with the usual operating stuff, all proper and sterile and so forth, which is to be expected in a super nice clean brand new hospital. Miss English keeps reassuring me as if I am a frightened child. I will be fine. It will be over soon. The handsome doc is joking with her and she tells me he is a cardiovascular surgeon and this is his operation of the century. Apparently he was running loose doing nothing and was roped in to tend to me.

He has plucked the head of the tick corpse out in no time and I get a bandage, but no further instructions. Nothing to worry about. I ask if it is not dangerous, thinking of vomiting and bleeding on the roof of the mouth.

“Oh, no,” says Miss English, “not in Moldova. In Russia, yes! You can die!” (From Crimean-Congo hemorrhagic fever perchance?)

I thank the doc for his operating expertise and he grins and takes off. Miss English takes me to the office and another lovely person gets my bill ready. It comes rolling out of the printer with two items on it: One for what I can figure out means “dressing,” the other for the actual procedure. The total is the equivalent of $ 8.50 or € 6. Actually this is the charge for the “dressing” only because the procedure is listed as costing 0 as in zero. Apparently the cardiovascular surgeon considered it below his dignity to charge for extracting a tick head from my, well, you know where.

You just gotta love this.

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Surely you have tales of greater horrors than this, about alien invaders like guinea worm or hook worm. Or perhaps you have an interesting doctor story to share. Make my day!

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