Beauty and the Bees: Our Not-So-Sweet Stay in France’s Fairytale Village

Last Updated on November 26, 2025 by Charlotte

Riquewihr looks exactly like what you’d imagine when someone says “fairytale French village.” Half-timbered houses line cobblestone streets, flower boxes overflow with pink and purple petunias, and medieval clock towers rise above red-tiled roofs. It’s so picturesque that it’s almost absurd — which makes sense, since this Alsatian gem supposedly inspired the village in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. We arrived expecting a romantic escape in a storybook village, but what we got was a heatwave, a medieval Airbnb, and an experience that started as a fairytale and quickly spiraled into a nightmare.

If you’d like to turn up the comedy while you read, we recommend listening to the song “Flight of the Bumblebee” by Rimsky Korsakov while you read this travel story.

After a long, sweltering day of travel during a brutal heatwave, we were more than ready to settle into our lovingly restored medieval apartment. The listing photos showed exposed wooden beams, historic charm, and all the romantic ambiance you’d want for a getaway in France’s wine country. At 90°F (32°C) and climbing, all I wanted was a cold shower and to collapse into bed.

And that’s when I met our first uninvited roommate.

In the bathroom, I turned on the luxury rainfall-style shower and stepped under the cool stream of water. As I started to relax for the first time all day, I heard a faint buzzing sound. I figured it must be the Air Conditioning unit, thank god for modern amenities in medieval buildings.

As I hummed to myself in the shower, lathering shampoo in my hair, the buzzing intensified.

I turned toward the sound and froze. Just inches from my face, a large black and yellow wasp was hovering in place, vibrating in midair like it was trying to decide whether to charge or wait for backup.

I screamed. That’s when the wasp dive-bombed like a black and yellow missile aimed directly at my head. As I tried to leap out of the tub, I whacked my shin against the high tub rim, wincing with pain. Before now, this deep soaking tub had seemed like a luxury. But now, as the wasp circled my head, looping and lunging with fury, this bathtub seemed more like an obstacle to my salvation.

As I scrambled over the slick porcelain edge, my feet slippery with shampoo suds, I lunged for the towel rack. But it was empty. I’d forgotten my towel in the other room! Distracted, I yelped as my bare feet skidded on the wet floor, and I lost my balance, flailing forward, directly toward the exposed beam doorframe, which greeted my forehead with a resounding thonk, as the wasp danced around the edges of my vision. I pawed frantically for the medieval door handle, my sudsy hands slipping against the ancient iron latch. The wasp dove again. I yanked harder, finally bursting through—

Now wet, naked, forehead stinging, and seeing stars, I staggered into the bedroom with soap still clinging to my arms and hair, my eyes burning from the shampoo. The wasp chased me all the way, buzzing furiously behind like a tiny winged kamikaze pilot.

I dove under the covers of our bed like a child hiding from monsters under the bed. Except this monster had wings, a stinger, and had already won.

“THERE’S A WASP!” I screamed to my Travel Buddy, who was unpacking in the other room. “GET IT OUT!”

He galloped into the room, like a knight charging into battle to defend his princess, and warily opened the bedroom window, shooing the wasp outside. Crisis solved, right?

Ten minutes later, two more wasps emerged from the rafters like they were clocking in for the evening shift. As my Travel Buddy suited up in long pants and his raincoat — hood cinched tight around his face like some sort of makeshift beekeeper — I frantically started texting our Airbnb host.

“Hi! We have wasps coming out of the bathroom ceiling. Can you help?”

His response? “You probably just saw an ant.”

I stared at my phone in disbelief. An ant? Now, I may not be an entomologist, but I did spend an entire summer working for one, doing insect identification for pollinators. I’m pretty sure I can tell the difference between an ant and a wasp that just chased me naked out of a bathroom.

“No, this is definitely a wasp,” I typed back, watching my Travel Buddy cautiously advance toward the bathroom like he was defusing a bomb.

“You are wrong,” came the reply.

Wrong? WRONG?! I’ve literally been paid to identify insects!

That’s when we heard the telltale buzzing from the bedroom. Wasp number four had joined the party.

My Travel Buddy, still in his improvised hazmat suit, grabbed the nearest weapon: my hiking shoe. What followed was a brief but intense battle between man and wasp, ending with a decisive WHACK against the medieval plaster wall.

I took a photo of the very dead, very obviously wasp-shaped victim and sent it to our host.

“Yes, that is a wasp,” came his grudging reply.

No kidding, Sherlock. Within an hour, he’d sent over a helper armed with a can of RAID — because apparently, when guests prove they’re not hallucinating insects, swift action is required.

The helper sprayed the bathroom rafters liberally, then delivered the cheerful news: “You must leave for 30 minutes while the chemicals settle.”

Back out into the 90-degree heat we went, melting on the cobblestones while our medieval apartment aired out its toxic wasp genocide.

That night, I woke up around 2 AM needing the bathroom. Half-asleep, I shuffled toward the medieval doorway and immediately heard it: that familiar, ominous buzzing.

Now fully awake and in complete darkness, I frantically felt around the stone walls for a light switch that seemed to exist in some parallel universe. Medieval buildings weren’t exactly designed with modern electrical convenience in mind. I’m stumbling around, bumping into furniture, trying not to wake my Travel Buddy while also trying not to get stung by an invisible wasp.

Finally, I managed to back out of the bathroom and slam the door shut, trapping wasp number five inside.

Five wasps in twelve hours? This wasn’t bad luck anymore. This was a pattern. We had a wasp colony living in our ceiling, and apparently, we were the unwelcome tenants disrupting their medieval fortress.

The next morning, after another wasp emerged during my cautious attempt at brushing my teeth, I messaged our host again.

“Hi, we’re still having wasp issues. This is ongoing.”

His solution? “We can move you to another apartment.”

On the surface, this seemed reasonable. But we were already halfway through our three-night stay in Riquewihr. Moving meant spending half our remaining vacation day packing, relocating, and unpacking again instead of exploring the fairytale villages and vineyards we’d actually come to see.

We faced a classic travel dilemma: comfort versus time. Do you cut your losses and waste precious vacation hours dealing with logistics, or do you grit your teeth and make the best of a less-than-ideal situation?

We chose to stay and fight the wasp war.

That’s when we made the discovery that elevated this from “unfortunate coincidence” to “are you kidding me right now?”

While looking under the kitchen sink, my Travel Buddy found it: another can of RAID. Not the one the helper had brought — a different can, clearly older, tucked away behind the cleaning supplies like some sort of dirty secret.

Someone already knew about the wasp problem. They’d bought wasp spray. They’d dealt with this before. And somehow, in all their communications about our “lovely restored medieval apartment,” they’d forgotten to mention their established insect roommates.

The betrayal was complete. We weren’t the first guests to be dive-bombed by wasps during their romantic Alsace getaway. We were just the first ones brave (or stubborn) enough to insist that wasps are not, in fact, ants.

By day three, we’d reached an uneasy détente with our winged roommates. The wasps, it turned out, were more bark than bite — they looked intimidating but mostly left us alone as long as we gave them a respectful distance. We learned to shower quickly, brush teeth efficiently, and always check the ceiling before entering the bathroom.

Still, the whole experience left me feeling unsettled. We’d paid premium prices for a romantic weekend in a fairytale village, not for a part-time job as amateur exterminators. The situation felt especially dire because of the brutal heatwave combined with the Alsace’s traditional business hours — many shops close for long lunch breaks during the early afternoon, exactly when we needed somewhere cool to escape to. Instead of sipping wine and wandering cobblestone streets without a care in the world, we were essentially trapped in our medieval wasp fortress during the hottest hours of the day.

So yes, Riquewihr really is as beautiful as the fairy tales suggest. The half-timbered houses are Instagram-perfect, the wine is excellent, and the medieval charm is undeniable. But our stay proved that even in the most picturesque settings, the difference between a dream vacation and a buzzkill often comes down to the fine print — or in this case, what’s hiding in the rafters.

Ever stayed somewhere that looked like a dream but turned out to be a disaster? I’d love to hear your funniest (or worst) stories in the comments!

Also, a little Fun fact: this chaotic little tale marks post #100 on Char Across the World! I always imagined the milestone would involve champagne on a mountaintop, but honestly? A wasp-infested Airbnb during a French heatwave feels more on-brand.