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.
In moments, two dozen nudists of all ages, shapes, and sizes were arranged in a great, wriggling pile on a massive pile of faux-fur throws. It was like a living palet breton —a human blanket of skin against skin. Children giggled. Grandparents snored softly. Someone produced a flask of cognac.
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.” 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!”
This year, however, a complication had arrived in the form of his sister-in-law, Chantal. There, Christmas arrived not with a flurry of
“You know,” she said, reaching for another slice of bûche de Noël , “the stockings are hung by the chimney with care—but here, we are the stockings.”
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. Children giggled
“Ah, zut,” said Jean-Paul. Then he had an idea.