Great language, that French.
You don’t even need to be fluent to speak it.
Just wear something black, exaggerate your vowels and delight in whatever your words bring you. Try it:
“Chalet.”
“Alps.”
“Hot tub.”
Voilà: you’ve just described Chalet Pelerin, a six-bedroom stone cottage in the French Alps with a clear mission statement of providing anything you demand, opening in February but taking reservations now.
The setting: basically a snowier, ski-friendly version of the Beauty and the Beast village. Everyone’s just smiling, carrying baguettes and singing the “Bonjour” song. Until they come here—then, they just marvel at its palatial lodge-y-ness and stroke the fur blankets, saying, “Hey, real rabbit fur.” (In French, presumably.)
And that’s all great. But you’re in ski country. Some of the best on earth. When you’re not lording over the town from your balcony’s hot tub, you’ll be on off-piste safaris or mountaineering expeditions. Or pretty much anything you want, because your landlords have a strict anything-goes policy.
Say you’re here for a certain special day in February. You want the front doors opening in slow-mo as Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World” plays. Done. You want the pool dyed pink. Kinda looks like blood, but... done. And your date wants heli-skiing. Well, that’s actually banned in France—but Italy’s just a quick chopper ride away.
You always go all out on Presidents’ Day.
You don’t even need to be fluent to speak it.
Just wear something black, exaggerate your vowels and delight in whatever your words bring you. Try it:
“Chalet.”
“Alps.”
“Hot tub.”
Voilà: you’ve just described Chalet Pelerin, a six-bedroom stone cottage in the French Alps with a clear mission statement of providing anything you demand, opening in February but taking reservations now.
The setting: basically a snowier, ski-friendly version of the Beauty and the Beast village. Everyone’s just smiling, carrying baguettes and singing the “Bonjour” song. Until they come here—then, they just marvel at its palatial lodge-y-ness and stroke the fur blankets, saying, “Hey, real rabbit fur.” (In French, presumably.)
And that’s all great. But you’re in ski country. Some of the best on earth. When you’re not lording over the town from your balcony’s hot tub, you’ll be on off-piste safaris or mountaineering expeditions. Or pretty much anything you want, because your landlords have a strict anything-goes policy.
Say you’re here for a certain special day in February. You want the front doors opening in slow-mo as Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World” plays. Done. You want the pool dyed pink. Kinda looks like blood, but... done. And your date wants heli-skiing. Well, that’s actually banned in France—but Italy’s just a quick chopper ride away.
You always go all out on Presidents’ Day.
