There were tears. There was applause. And then, because this was France, there was cheese.
The mistral wind had finally died, leaving the Provence sky a crisp, deep sapphire. On a hillside overlooking the Luberon valley, the village of Saint-Pierre-des-Corps lay quiet. But it was not asleep. In the largest of the converted stone farmhouses, a warm, golden light spilled from every window, carrying with it the scent of roasting chestnuts, pine resin, and mulled wine spiced with star anise and orange. french nudist christmas celebration
Inside, the annual Réveillon de Noël of the Association des Naturistes du Luberon was in full, naked swing. There were tears
Gérard shuffled to the massive stone fireplace, where a log the size of a small car was spitting embers. He didn’t bother dressing to poke the fire. Why would he? The heat on his skin was the first gift of the evening. The mistral wind had finally died, leaving the
He did not shout “Ho ho ho.” Instead, he knelt down, one by one, to the level of each child, and handed them their stone. To little Léo, the one with the painted navel, he gave a stone that said Rire —Laughter. Léo immediately tried to eat it.