Nudist French Christmas Celebration Part 1 Nudist Naturistl Exclusive Here
But the visual centerpiece is the people. Forty bodies, aged 22 to 78, completely bare, sitting around a long oak table. They are decorating gingerbread men with icing. They are uncorking Champagne. The only fabric in sight is the red velvet tablecloth. The evening begins at 19:00 with l’apéro . Because the human body loses heat rapidly, the naturist chef (a retired Michelin-star cook named Dominique) has engineered a thermal menu.
The lodge is heated to a tropical 24°C (75°F) via underfloor heating and a massive stone fireplace. But the real genius of the is the "staggered thermal rhythm." But the visual centerpiece is the people
As the clock strikes twelve, a man stands up and shouts, "Joyeux Noël, les sans-fringues!" (Merry Christmas, you no-clothes people!). A shower of confetti—made of recycled paper, of course—rains down on bare shoulders. Why would someone choose this? Why freeze for a moment of philosophy? They are uncorking Champagne
Then come the . Traditionally, this is a messy affair of garlic butter dripping down chins. In a textile setting, people worry about staining their shirts. Here, there is no worry. The butter drips onto the chest. A napkin wipes it off. The body is the canvas, and garlic butter is the paint. The "No Clothes, No Judgment" Gift Exchange At 21:00, the Père Noël arrives. Well, Père Noël is actually Pierre, the 55-year-old groundskeeper, wearing only a Santa hat and a white beard glued to his chin. He drags a sack to the center of the salon . Because the human body loses heat rapidly, the
By Marc LeClerc, Special Correspondent to Naturist Life International
Because, as one participant tells me at 2:00 AM, wrapped in a towel by the fire: "Christmas is the most stressful day of the year for clothed people. The cooking, the dressing up, the judgment of your outfit by your mother-in-law. Here, there is only one question: 'Are you warm enough? Do you want another blanket?'"
Imagine stepping from a snowy patio into a steaming grotto. Floating on your back, looking up at the Orion constellation, a glass of Crémant in your hand, while snowflakes melt on your cheeks. Around you, bodies of all shapes—stretch marks, tattoos, scars, wrinkles—bob gently in the phosphorescent blue water.
