The trip was all planned: Four days in France's chateaux-dotted Loire Valley followed by several days cycling Alpine passes with our Belgian friends. Then I came across the book - the one that changed everything. There I was, innocently paging through Life's Paradise Found when I saw it - a glossy picture of a gorgeous "olde worlde" European town. I wasn’t intrigued. I was utterly enchanted. A quick Internet search revealed that this charming French village also boasted a clear blue lake with a storybook mountain backdrop. It was called Annecy and I had to go there. Leaving the Loire Valley after four wonderful days, we drove to Annecy. On the way, I reviewed the directions the hotel had sent: connect via their street-side intercom and a bollard would be lowered remotely, permitting us to drive up to the hotel and drop off our bags. Frustratingly, we drove around the perimeter of the Old Town several times trying to locate the intercom. It was Bastille Day, and Annecy's streets were thick with parked cars and sluggish traffic. On what was probably our fourth circuit, we spotted it. I pressed the button and we pulled into our much-anticipated French Shangri-La, but soon sensed that taking our car into this pedestrian-only zone was a mistake, despite the permission. Nevertheless, we inched ahead and turned onto a narrow bridge. That's where things got really tense. We crept slowly onto the bridge but were forced to stop halfway. The town was flooded with Bastille Day revelers and a human blockade of merrymakers prevented us from advancing, then surrounded us like ants around a chocolate. The only car in the Old Town, we were painfully out of place. Enduring curious stares and outright glares, I broke out in a cold sweat. Panicked, we hatched a plan: My husband would stay behind the wheel, ensconced in the safety of the car, while I made the daring, herky-jerky dash on foot to the hotel with the luggage. Repeatedly uttering, "Nous avons permission" and "Excusez-moi," I darted my way through a dense forest of butts and elbows, trying to avoid smacking others and being smacked myself. Newly unburdened, I returned to our sore thumb of a car where a kindly tourist was clearing the crowd so we could back up and flee the Old Town. After ages circling Annecy's only free parking lot like a hungry vulture scouting carrion, we pounced on a spot that opened up, then walked back to our hotel. After getting settled, we went out in search of sustenance. The second we exited the hotel, we were faced with a near-impermeable wall of humans. Clasping hands for dear life, we put our heads down and squeezed through the mob single file until finally we found an open table. The moment we sat down, I burst into tears. Feeling guilty and ashamed that I hadn’t anticipated the crowds, I said I hated this place. It was like a state fair on steroids, and I wanted to leave. My husband felt the same. Desperately wanting to fix the mess I had caused, we returned to the hotel where I confirmed its cancellation policy before running to the room to research our escape plan. Then I remembered our Belgian friend’s suggestion that we should explore Valloire, the quaint Alpine town where the rental bikes were waiting. Voila! I found accommodations and secured a reservation. Relieved but emotionally exhausted, we slept fitfully, disturbed several times in the night by inebriated revelers in the street below. We awoke the next morning feeling hopeful, knowing we only had to endure the next 24 hours in the breathtaking madhouse, but the Annecy Curse had been cast. We bickered over everything and nothing all day long. Fighting the crowds and each other, we struggled through the day, never questioning our decision to leave. Finally, free to depart without a penalty, we loaded up and got the hell out of town. The Annecy Curse lifted, we had a magical time in Valloire. Despite everything, Annecy hasn’t seen the last of me. A stunning combination of Amsterdam, Bruges, and Italy's Lake Como, it's too gorgeous not to try again. Just not on Bastille Day.