Nudist - French Christmas [best]

With a sigh that fogged the air, Chantal untied her robe. She slipped into the pile, wedging between a retired gendarme and a cheerful baker from Bordeaux. Within minutes, she stopped shivering. Within ten, she was laughing at the baker’s joke about a frozen figgy pudding. By the time the lights flickered back on, Chantal was flat on her back, one leg draped over a yoga instructor, telling everyone about her first nude Christmas.

“Come, Chantal,” Monique called gently. “Body heat is the oldest warmth.” nudist french christmas

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!” With a sigh that fogged the air, Chantal untied her robe

Chantal was a textile—what nudists called those who preferred clothes. She had reluctantly agreed to spend Christmas with Jean-Paul and his wife, Monique, but only under protest. “I will freeze,” she had declared. “And I will be mortified.” Within ten, she was laughing at the baker’s

The crisis came at dinner. The main course—a perfect chapon (capon) with truffles—was interrupted by a power outage. The heated floors died. The outdoor hot tub’s jets fell silent. The temperature began to drop.