An evening in Courchevel.

The cold reaches your cheeks before you notice the quiet. Above the roofs, the mountain has begun to lose its edges. White slopes turn the soft blue of a shadow, and the sky holds the last pale light of the afternoon.

As you stroll through the village, you notice everything is right there in front of you. The snowfall rests gently against the roof tops, smoothing out sharp edges. Each window reveals a square of light, a lamp on a table. Beyond the glass, all is warm and toasty, warm food with smoke rising. Every breath that leaves your body turns into smoke, making you keep wanting to breathe out more. You notice the crunch of your boots in the snow beneath you. Skis knock against each other in the distance and then there is the strange, awkward sound of someone walking in ski boots. A door opens and you hear a burst of laughter. The door closes and the sound goes away once again. You stop in front of a small cafe. Warm air carrying the smell of freshly baked bread and something sweet. The thought of hot chocolate is almost as if you can taste it. The taste is dark, thick and just slightly bitter beneath the sweetness. Your fingers insist that you should stop where you are and go in for a cup. As you take off your gloves and clack your boots to take off the snow you order one. As you patiently wait with your hands freezing you tap your leg on the floor constantly. As the hot chocolate arrives you take a sip and with whipped cream on your nose, you feel your heart has become warm.

There is no need to hurry. Stay long enough to watch another window brighten and sit down to drink another Hot Chocolate.