I’ve been binging the OG season of “Sex and the City” for the past week. So, the other day, when I saw a meme of Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte all huddled together in little black dresses with the caption, “The bed bugs of Paris,” I had to laugh.

But the laugh’s on me as I head to the City of Light this week for des petites vacances. In case you just crawled out from under a Sealy Posturpedic, Paris is in the throes of a bed bug crisis seemingly on par with the initial onset of the pandemic. Insert scream emoji and cue the “ewww.”

Moments after sharing the “Sex and the City” bed bug meme on Instagram, my cousin, who is coincidentally also traveling to Paris, messaged me, “I AM FREAKING OUT ABOUT THIS WITH MY TRIP COMING UP ON SUNDAY!”

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And he’s not alone.

It’s not quite lockdown, but let’s just say the typically savoir-faire Parisians are not exactly laissez-faire about the situation. Who can blame them? Paris is taking a hard line against the bugs as they prepare to host the Olympics next summer. They’re not about to let an infestation of les punaises, as the French call them, threaten that.

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The issue came to light during Paris Fashion Week, which ended recently. Images of creepers crawling on hotel sheets, on trains and even at Charles de Gaulle airport were all over social media.

“Is the bed bug fashion’s newest IT girl?” one post inquired. The deputy mayor of Paris Emmanuel Grégoire declared, “No one is safe.” The National Pest Management Association issued a warning for those traveling back to the States to beware of the the insects hitching a ride.

And just like that, a few bad bugs ruining the magic for the rest of us.

As I was freaking out about bugs infiltrating my favorite magical place, I saw a news report about a magical place right here in Park City that’s also being threatened by its own kind of bad bugs.

I’m talking about The Church of Dirt, the scenic makeshift chapel at the top of Guardsman Pass. Last week, the Park City Council voted unanimously to shut it down. Park City Council member Max Doilney said it’s an example of a public space being loved to death due to overuse.

The Church of Dirt’s rustic arbor and wooden benches were left behind by the former owners of the land, who once held a wedding there.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. Such a good idea, in fact, that people came from all over the country to be married there. They “reserved” their weddings on wooden signs marked with a date.

The fantasy of a micro wedding with majestic views of the Wasatch Mountains was hard to resis

— especially during the pandemic’s social distancing. But the reality as the once-secret spot became more and more popular was overflowing parking lots, garbage, misunderstandings over scheduling, and the belief that the public space was somehow a private venue. Bad bugs ruining it for the rest of us.

I’m usually very good at keeping secrets. I make an exception though, when it comes to places like the Church of Dirt. I loved showing it off to friends visiting Park City. I’d never tell them where we were going. We’d hike up the trail and I’d get to experience the magic all over again — through their eyes.

“What’s that?” they’d whisper, catching their breath as they paused to snap pics.

But those of us who live here know the best way to experience the Church of Dirt is to take a mental picture. The memories last longer that way.

One winter when I first moved out here, I skinned up the road with a guy I dated briefly. We sat next to each other on one of the wooden benches and ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches out of tin foil that glinted in the sun. We drank High West whiskey out of a flask that had a picture of the Mormon Temple on it. I remember we didn’t talk much in that moment. We didn’t need to.

In the fall, I hiked up to the spot with a bunch of my friends for a sunset happy hour. It was wool-beanie-flannel-shirt-and-puffy weather as we stood around a wooden table someone had left behind. There were Tupperware containers filled with charcuterie and pumpkin bread and Toblerone, and we sipped Pinor Noir out of Hydro Flask tumblers. The sun dipped just below the horizon as I took a picture of the twig arbor, its silvery branches supported by a pile of rocks and an old oriental rug.

One January, I did a full-moon ski tour up to the Church of Dirt with a group of backcountry skiers. The Wolf Moon was so bright we didn’t even need our headlamps. At the top, we took off our skis and sat in a circle in the snow. Our guide gave each of us a toothpick. She made a tiny fire out of a Kleenex and told us each to light the toothpick while we set our intention for the new year. I’m pretty sure there was some howling after that — wolf howls and laughter. Another memory made.

At the end of the day, the Church of Dirt is just a dusty clearing in the sagebrush, a pile of broken sticks, and a few wooden benches. So why is it so special? I think there’s something about discovering abandoned places that truly captures our imagination. It’s a hint of humanity in the natural world. Proof that we were here.

I guess we’ll have to find another secret spot. And I have no doubt we will — if we haven’t already. One filled with its own raw splendor. Its magical, mystical sense of place. It won’t be Paris, but it will be all ours.

And we will have to find a way to keep the bad bugs out.