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.
While being able to mention “our place in the French Alps” in conversation is a boon to my general sophistication, the fact is, I partially own a condo in mountain resort community that requires a $700 plane ticket and an hours drive to get to. It’s breathtakingly impractical. We vow to go twice a year — to ski in the winter, and then to hike in the summer — but surely our ambitions will be crushed by logistics, finances, and our own desire to go someplace else, for a change.
So… why do it? Well, the condo is in the same building as the condo where Mr. Pinault’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. Pinault, 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.
Anyway, I’m wondering if it’s pretentious to send out invitations to a housewarming party. “We will be having an apres-ski at our new place in the French Alps on Saturday night. Please feel free to drop by.”
