Sweating it out on a honeymoon in paradise

A wedding begins in a land of moths, monkeys and salamanders.

Listen. I can be laid back when I have to be. I've been known to wait five or six hours before responding to the occasional email. I sometimes neglected to shake a towel vigorously before using it, risking the risk of unknown vermin clinging to my vulnerable, naked body. So when my husband and I decide to go on honeymoon in Bali, I have faith that I can enjoy it. To appreciate the views of untouched nature as I drift up and down in the infinity pool of a luxury hotel. And not necessarily thinking about, say, what kind of alien parasites could potentially fit into my vagina in said infinity pool.

At some point, maybe Being basking in the glow of our travel agent's enthusiasm, I had to decide that my creeping O.C.D. couldn't follow me to Bali, through endless customs lines and sprawling opulent resorts and into the hotel spa facing the river where the woman in charge of my three-and-a-half-hour massage now tells me to relax.

A three and a half hour massage is a long time. Longer than James Cameron's "Titanic". As the masseuse covers my back in mud, I wonder what would be happening right now in "Titanic" if I had started it at the same time as this massage. Would Jack already learn to use utensils? Or would the ship already fill with water and I could get free sooner than I thought because time still stands still here and in fact all notion of time as I know it has changed, and I will now understand time as a circle like that of Amy Adams character in "Arrival"?

"Relax," whispers the masseuse, applying pressure to my very tense neck, and I try not to think about the mysterious animal droppings I found on the floor of our bungalow last night that my husband, in a fit of self-preservation, tried to convince me n It was just a bit of rubble.

After the massage, in an effort to relax further, I scan the floor of our bedroom with the flashlight in the room. iPhone because the lighting in the room is elegantly dim and by elegance I mean frustrating for someone who doesn't plan on indulging in seduction at any point in time. and this trip. I google different creature droppings. I conclude that the ones dotting the floor of our bungalow are salamander droppings.

"Salamanders are great!" my mom gushed about our WhatsApp call, which I made in a whispered panic from the locked bathroom so my husband wouldn't accuse me of not enjoying our honeymoon.

The smart toilet keeps waving at me, its lid opening and closing with a small hum, puzzled as to why I'm not using it.

< p class="css-at9mc1 evys1bk0">"Salamanders eat all bugs! They're here to help!" said my mother with energetic enthusiasm.

I don't ask her if a salamander's droppings fall from the ceiling into my mouth because I noticed that her patience was short with this type of question over the years.

In the morning I am woken up by what I assume to be ambulances but are allegedly cicadas. My left ankle is swollen from two mosquito bites. I have 'Skeeter Syndrome' which means the mosquito bites on my skin distend to tumorous degrees and break out into tiny welts. So the salamanders are obviously not doing their job, or: there are so many mosquitoes in this room that their predators are sated and unable to eat them all - a scary prospect.

I casually drop this information as our concierge drives us through the resort in a buggy, a frangipani flower behind his ear. He promises to fix the bug issue and drops us in the lobby. A car takes us to a traditional Balinese dance at a nearby temple. It sits atop a cliff with panoramic views of the Indian Ocean and is surrounded by what the internet calls a "peaceful vibe".

According to my iPhone, there is 90% humidity during outdoor dancing. I assume 100% humidity means drowning. Streams of sweat run down my spine like caressing fingers. I spray DEET on myself so heavily that I can taste the chemicals on my tongue through my nostrils. The sun is setting and the temperature is cooling slightly. Then the dancers set fire to the stone stage.

Suddenly (to the tune of Wagner's "Cavalcade" the Valkyries", in my head), swarms of moths the si...