France. Is there a nation more romanticized? My first visit, in April of 2011, started in Paris. We landed at night. The airplane terminal is not a proper envoy for the excellence of its nation. It is old and dirtied. Structural planning from the seventies. Dividers recolored with carbon dioxide from the breath of people.
We had a late supper, and by the following morning I ended up on a train traveling south to new destinations. The train station is associated with the airplane terminal. It is much dirtier than Charles de Gaulle aéroport. Tar recolors on the walkway from many years of pedestrian activity, and the emanation of unkempt bodies blended with oil. Anyway past the city were sights to purify the eyes. Lavish green moving homesteads, and postcard towns all through the wide open.
This was a business trip with my new manager, yet it got to be such a great deal more. The individuals, the sustenance, the history, the building design. My tangible discernment felt deficient to the assignment. The further south we ventured to every part of the more my tension developed. That I may not have the capacity to recollect that it all, to have the capacity to relate the eminent encounters.
The highlight happened at a spot I minimum anticipated. A residential area in focal France, more to the south than the north, more east than west. Argenton-sur-Creuse. I can best depict it as a poor man’s form of Venice. A waterway goes through, with water lapping at the edge of structures. All through the town are cobblestone walkways, unpleasant on the feet however pertinent to the setting. The multi-shaded structures, some with a slight lean, give a construction modeling which could make you trust you are a character in a Charles Dickens setting.
Our morning meeting was short, abandoning us four hours to tend to our train. We discovered a walkway bistro, the emanation of heated baked good wafting from within. I requested a glass of white wine. The sustenance in France is incredible. Essential dishes you may turn your nose up to in the States. It is all new. Something as straightforward as french fries, called pomme de frites, ambushes your nose with cooked potato, oil, and salt. Indeed a cheddar plate opens your faculties; the sweet possess an aroma similar to somewhat acrid milk, in delightful yellows and beiges.
As the server set my glass of white wine on the table, a slight sweat on the outside of the shimmering glass, she arrived. Did I say the ladies of France? They are past lovely. Thin figures with flimsy Parisian countenances, highlighted by tight lips from years of pressed together elocutions. Marginally claimed cheek bones, highlighting tricking eyes.
At the same time this woman emerged over the swarm. Long legs with tight pants, tucked into tall dark boots. I am inclined toward blondes, yet she had long brunette hair, finishing at the little of her back. Dim eyebrows on top of olive skin, and puncturing cocoa eyes.
She sat at the table alongside mine and gazed straightforwardly at me with a proclaimed grin. My heart skirted a pulsated. Not on the grounds that I was abruptly infatuated. All the more out of humiliation that she may have discovered me looking at her excellence.
“Est-ce que tu parles français?” she said.
I comprehended the sentence, however was reluctant to say “oui” for apprehension she will talk excessively quick and abandon me, always pondering about the animal who captivated me in discussion. My supervisor is a piece down the road, I think, talking business on his telephone. His vicinity has turned into ancient histor