For the first time in my life, I am a property owner! Well, part-owner. One of six owners. Of a condominium. That I’ve never actually seen. In the French Alps.
It sounds like a line straight out of a rom-com—“our place in the French Alps”—adding an air of European sophistication to any conversation. But reality is less glamorous: I partially own a cozy condo in a mountain resort community that demands a $700 plane ticket and an hour’s drive just to reach. The concept is breathtakingly impractical. We’ve vowed to visit twice a year—skiing in the winter, hiking in the summer—but I already foresee those ambitions getting squashed by the logistics, finances, and the inevitable desire to go somewhere else for a change.
So… why do it? Well, the condo is in the same building as the condo where Mr. P’s family has vacationed since he was a little boy. These are small, cozy European units, and more space was needed to accommodate the burgeoning family when we converged during holidays. My parents-in-law proposed that we all contribute to acquire the additional condo. It’s like marrying into the Trump family.
Today we reviewed the closing agreement sent to us by the realty notary in France. In addition to providing my signature underneath 4 pages of complicated French, I had to manually write “Lu et approuve et Bon pour pouvoir” above my signature. “Care to translate?” I asked Mr. P, who was busy reviewing the details of our jaw-dropping wire transfer to France. I think they warn Americans who marry foreigners against doing stuff like this.
Now, I’m toying with the idea of sending out cheeky invitations for a housewarming party. “Join us for après-ski at our new place in the French Alps this Saturday night. Feel free to drop by.” Would that be absurdly pretentious? Absolutely. But the thought makes me smile.
For now, I’ll settle for the novelty of my new title: part-owner of a tiny slice of Alpine paradise.
