From the Desk of the Elves
Well… Jamaica was wonderful.
The coconuts were plentiful. Santa only got sunscreen in his beard twice. Pip still insists he can snorkel faster than a fish. (He cannot.) And we all agreed that island life was exactly what we needed.
Then Santa looked at a map.
Five minutes later he announced, “Let’s go to France.”
Naturally.
So we packed the swimsuits, said goodbye to the beach, and pointed ourselves toward Europe for one of the greatest sporting events on Earth…
The Tour de France!
Now, if you’ve never seen the Tour in person, imagine thousands of people lining mountain roads, ringing cowbells, waving flags, cheering until they’re hoarse, all waiting for cyclists who somehow believe riding straight up a mountain is a perfectly reasonable hobby.
We fit in immediately.
Well… mostly.
Before we even found the race, Santa unveiled our newest mode of transportation.
The elves spent weeks secretly repainting our motorhome into the finest Christmas-themed touring vehicle France has ever seen. It has snowflakes, tiny painted reindeer, Christmas lights around the roofline, and enough North Pole decorations that nobody could possibly mistake us for ordinary tourists.
Which, thankfully, we are not.
Everywhere we park, people stop to take pictures.
Some wave.
Some laugh.
One gentleman asked if Christmas had been moved to August.
Santa simply smiled and replied, “Not officially.”
Of course, no visit to France would be complete without sampling the local food.
We’ve eaten fresh baguettes that make North Pole bread seem positively shy.
We’ve discovered cheese in more varieties than Bernard has spreadsheets.
Tinsel now believes butter should be considered its own food group.
And we’re beginning to suspect French bakeries may actually be magical.
Then came race day.
We found one of the Tour’s legendary mountain climbs, where thousands of fans camp along the roadside waiting hours for the riders to appear. The atmosphere is incredible. Music plays. Flags wave. Complete strangers become instant friends.
Then, suddenly…
You hear helicopters.
Police motorcycles.
Team cars.
And before you know it, the cyclists come flying past, climbing mountains that even our reindeer would politely decline.
The speed.
The determination.
The sheer grit.
Even Santa stood there smiling in amazement.
(Although we may have caught him trying to “test” one of the bicycles afterward. Let’s just say… Santa is much better at delivering presents than riding a racing bike.)
We’ll keep that story between us.
For now.
Until next time, we’ll continue following the Tour through the beautiful French countryside, finding little villages, eating far too many pastries, and cheering every rider who pedals past our wonderfully ridiculous Christmas motorhome.
The North Pole may be home…
…but adventure has a funny way of making every corner of the world feel a little magical.
Until Santa writes again,
— The Elves 🎄🚴🇫🇷
