There were so many things about my first solo trip around Europe that cemented my love for travel, but I always come back to one story in particular that I’ve told many, many times – the story of my first chocolate crepe.

By this time in my journey, I’d been in Europe for at least 5 weeks. I was in the second week of my internship at the Embassy in Paris, wearing a suit that I thought looked like every other suit out there with a dress shirt and tie that I had bought in Paris. I had my Embassy ID pass stuffed in my pocket like they taught us, minding my own business, walking down the street.

“Hey, American! How are you today?” asked a man out of the blue who I assumed to be Arab but may have been Indian. My eye and ear for the differences were not yet developed. “Come over here, I want to buy you a crepe.”

Now remember, I was only 17 and had not yet developed the traveler’s armor against touts nor an eye for potential scams that I have now, Frankly, I’m glad I was not yet so jaded based on how it worked out. I was a bit uneasy, though. I had no idea how he had pegged me as an American so easily. Looking back, it was probably my shoes. I was wearing leather loafers, but shoe styles and available designs vary pretty significantly country to country, as I’ve learned since then.

This was also the summer of 1986, a few months after the U.S. had bombed Libya and France had disallowed a flyover of their airspace by U.S military aircraft on the way there. Tensions in U.S. relations with both France and some Arab countries were a bit elevated, and there were definitely those in my hometown of Nashville who questioned my decision to go to France and my parents’ decision to let me. I think that’s when the term “Freedom Fries” first hit the vernacular.

So, some nervousness aside, I allowed myself to be pulled out of the flow of pedestrians as a second man began making a crepe on a sidewalk food cart. The first guy and I chatted as I watched the process. As the chocolatey goodness was wrapped in paper, I pulled out my wallet to pay. “No, no, no. Nancy Regan will pay for it,” the first guy said.

Puzzled, I looked at him, and he pointed across the street, smiling. “La Boutique de Nancy,” the sign read. “Nancy Reagan owns that store. She will pay for it!” He was beaming at his joke.

I thanked him and tucked into my sweet treat while my two new friends watched. It was delicious.

I’ve told this story over and over because it encapsulates two of my favorite things about international travel. The first are the delightful, random connections you can make with people who are not at all like you and yet very much exactly like all people everywhere if you allow yourself to be open to them.

The second is street food. I’ve eaten countless meals and snacks from countless street vendors around the world since that Parisian afternoon, and it truly is my preferred way to dine when I’m on the road.