This year, however, a complication had arrived in the form of his sister-in-law, Chantal.
There, Christmas arrived not with a flurry of scarves and mittens, but with bare feet slapping against heated terraces and the faint scent of pine mingling with sea salt on naked skin. nudist french christmas
But the Domaine had its ways. Upon arrival, she was wrapped in a fluffy white robe and led to a heated lounge where a colossal bûche de Noël sat on a table surrounded by naked carolers singing “Petit Papa Noël.” Chantal clutched her robe closed and sat stiffly in a corner. This year, however, a complication had arrived in
Jean-Paul, a retired Lyonnais with a magnificent white beard and absolutely no clothing, had been the resort’s unofficial Père Noël for twelve years. Each December 24th, he donned a red velvet hat, a black leather belt, and a pair of shiny boots—and nothing else. The children, rosy-cheeked and equally unclad, squealed with delight as he emerged from the sauna chimney (a cleverly repurposed barrel) shouting, “Joyeux Noël tout le monde!” Upon arrival, she was wrapped in a fluffy
“Ah, zut,” said Jean-Paul. Then he had an idea.