France. Is there a more romanticized country? My first visit, in April 2011, started in Paris. We arrived in the afternoon. The airport is not an appropriate ambassador of the beauty of your country. It is old and dirty. Architecture of the seventies. Carbon dioxide stained walls from human breath.

We had a late dinner and the next morning I found myself on a train heading south to new destinations. The train station is connected to the airport. It is even dirtier than Charles de Gaulle airport. Tar stains on the walkway from decades of foot traffic and the smell of unkempt bodies mixed with grease. But beyond the city there were places to wipe the eyes. Lush green farms and picture-postcard towns across the countryside.

This was a business trip with my new boss, but it turned into so much more. The people, the food, the history, the architecture. My sensory perception felt inadequate for the task. The further south we traveled, the more my anxiety grew. That you may not be able to remember everything, to be able to tell the wonderful experiences.

The highlight happened in a place you least expected. A small town in central France, further south than north, further east than west. Argenton-sur-Creuse. I can best describe it as a poor version of Venice. A river runs through it, with water lapping at the edge of the buildings. Throughout the city there are cobbled sidewalks, rough on the feet but suitable for the environment. The multi-colored buildings, some with a slight slant, provide an architecture that might make you believe you are a character in a Charles Dickens setting.

Our morning meeting was short, leaving us four hours to wait for our train. We found a sidewalk cafe, the smell of baked pastry wafting from inside. I ordered a glass of white wine. The food in France is fantastic. Basic dishes that you might like in the United States. Everything is fresh. Something as simple as French fries, called apple fries, assaults your nose with cooked potatoes, oil, and salt. Even a plate of cheese opens up your senses; the sweet smell of slightly sour milk, in beautiful yellows and beiges.

As the waiter set my glass of white wine on the table, with a light sweat on the outside of the shiny glass, she arrived. Did I mention the women of France? They are more than beautiful. Slender figures with fine Parisian faces, highlighted by tight lips from years of puckered pronunciations. Slightly pronounced cheekbones, accentuating the seductive look.

But this lady stood out from the crowd. Long legs in skinny jeans, tucked into tall black boots. I’m a fan of blondes, but she had long brown hair, which ended at the small of her back. Dark brows on olive skin and piercing brown eyes.

He sat down at the table next to mine and looked directly at me with a pronounced smile. My heart skipped a beat. Not because I suddenly fell in love. More out of shame that he had caught me looking at her beauty.

“You speak French?” she said.

I understood the sentence, but was afraid to say “oui” for fear that she would speak too quickly and leave me behind, forever wondering about the creature that involved me in the conversation. My boss is a block down the street, I think, talking business on the phone. His presence has become a remote memory.

“No. I apologize. A little, but mostly I only know English,” I replied.

With a handsome French accent, one octave below soprano, he says, “Okay. A handsome man like you doesn’t have to apologize.”

I felt flushed and gulped. He continued with his seductive gaze, waiting for an answer. I managed to recover enough to say, “It’s a great compliment coming from such a beautiful lady like you.”

“Thank you. Do you mind if I join you?”

“Please do it,” I told her, and then pushed the chair in front of me, open to her as an additional invitation.

Suddenly I find myself in a dilemma. My face feels hot, but this time out of slight panic. As she sits, her perfume assaults my nose, blocking the smell of pastry coming from the kitchen. My arms are shaking with nervousness. I’m married.

He has taken a seat but has not spoken. Moments passed. I hear the sound of shoes on the cobblestone behind me and dishes clinking in the coffee. But in front of me there is only the same tantalizing smile and captivating eyes.

I am desperately thinking of what to say next, how to get out of the situation, when a voice calls me from behind.

“Hey, our train will be here in ten minutes. We better get going.”

Saved by the boss! I say goodbye to the beautiful lady, “aurevoir,” I say, and a wonderful evening, I paid for my wine, and I’m on my way. As we approach the train station, my boss says, “Who the hell was that woman sitting across from you?”

“I have no idea,” I tell him. But inside I know that I will always remember Argenton-sur-Creuse a little more than the many other cities in France.