Everyone dreams of visiting the elegant castles of the Loire Valley in central France.

That was also our dream when my husband and I took a fast train from Gare Montparnasse in Paris to the city of Angers, which sits at the center of the Loire's famous chateau country.

As soon as we arrived in Angers that morning in July, we rented a car and drove it off the lot. I was behind the wheel since I speak French and can follow the signs better than my husband.

This also spared David the pain of being told where to go every three minutes for the next six hours.

Five blocks after leaving the rental agency, and as we were toodling through the quaint streets of downtown Angers, I started to notice the smell of croque-monsieurs, the grilled ham and cheese sandwich sold in just about every cafe and bar across the country.

That familiar and mouth-watering aroma -- ah, is that emmental or gruyere? -- followed us from street to street, everywhere we went, even when we left the area where cafes and bars were numerous.

And then later when there was no cafe or bar to be seen for miles.

And that is when we noticed smoke seeping out from beneath the hood of our car. And we realized that we had better pull over and get ourselves a vehicle that didn't smell like someone was grilling ham and cheese sandwiches on its engine block.

We found a pay phone in front of the crowded Chateau d'Angers -- at 2, promenade du Bout du Monde (or End of the World) -- and called for a replacement. The attendant promised to attend to us shortly.

And that's when I felt the urge to find a restroom.

We asked at the castle but were informed I'd have to pay the eight euro entry fee to use one.

And that is when we noticed what looked like a landing pod from an alien spaceship sitting on the sidewalk just yards from our disabled car.

Normally, I would avoid outdoor privies like the plague they imply, but this one had a shiny, curved door and looked like it had never been used.

And the entry fee was but a single euro.

I dropped the coin into a slot on its gleaming flank and the door slowly whirred open. I entered and the door just as slowly whirred shut behind me.

I sat down on its ultra-clean plastic-covered seat.

And that's when I noticed that the door had not closed properly. Through a tiny sliver, I could see light and people -- tourists, really -- milling about outside. Hordes of them.

What if one was looking in?

I pushed a button in the hope that it would close that gap.

And that's when the door suddenly whirred wide open. Very wide open.

"Oh, my God!" I shrieked.

A bunch of those tourists glanced over and their mouths fell open. Kids pointed and laughed.

"Are you okay?" my husband shouted, running up to the metal box.

"I'm okay! I'm okay!" I shouted back, jabbing the button to close the door, watching with relief as it finally whirred shut again.

And that's when I saw a sign warning that the Porta Potty completely sprayed down its shiny interior after each use.

Did the alien space pod think I had already left? Was it about to shower me with Monsieur Clean?

I rushed to finish up and escape, but when no toxic fluids splashed down on my head, I thought hard about launching that pod into outer space.

Or staying in it for the rest of the day.

Or at least until those tourists got back into their stupid bus and drove away.

Beware Les Portes Pots of France.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Note: Porta Potty photos actually taken in Cannes, in the south of France, and borrowed from the good folks at travelizmo.com.