This is Barta



Hello again, apologies for the brief silence. Since my last post 0n here I have officially moved in to my permanent home (which is essentially an apartment whose interior designer could have possibly worked for Henry VIII, where I sleep on a bunk bed in a closet), successfully tackled my first week of guests, received a care package from home, helped run the biggest bar crawl that Tignes has seen for the last three years, am currently fighting the dreaded seasonniare flu, have potentially got myself into a situationship (who knows) and received 10 euros from a departing guest on his final night who told me to ‘come back later, yeah?’ (seriously.)

So, the first week of guests. It’s been quite strange really, suddenly having all of these people in my four different chalets relying on me to do very adult things like take payment and organise ski lessons, as well as monitor chlorine levels in hot tubs. Maybe I was safer in law school after all. Can I just add, for anyone reading this, hot tubs are not okay. If you are one of those individuals who picks out a property purely because it has a hot tub, think again. Hot tubs can smell fear. If you’re thinking to yourself ‘oooh how lovely would it be to relax in a hot tub surrounded by snow after a day on the slopes’, just stop right there, these machines have a 99.9% chance of being completely un-fucking-reliable. People go nuts for hot tubs for some completely unknown reason, just get in the bath and open a window for gods sake.

My apartment, which I share with four other girls, (who I currently love fiercely but that could all change dramatically if they leave mess/ eat my chocolate) is full of character. It has a kitchen, bathroom, living space, and three bedrooms – two of which are glorified closets just big enough to ram a bunk bed in. But, I absolutely love it. We have cleaned it, decorated it with Christmassy bunting and a small tree, moved some things around and really made it our own. It is called Bartavelles which on my key fob has been shortened to ‘Barta’ which makes me internally shout ‘THIS IS BARTA’ everytime I unlock the door. It’s the simple things, right? Even if we have to duck our way into the kitchen because of various extension leads, even if we have to plan very carefully at the possibility of someone bringing back company to bump uglies and even if we have to endure the nice little surprise of the water changing from boiling to Baltic in the shower, it is home and I love it.

My care package from home arrived just after the last transfer day. I had been up at 3am, managed to get a coach full of departing guests to Geneva, then somehow kept my sanity intact for the journey back where I sold 30 plus lift passes on a very unstable coach journey through the mountains without landing on some poor pensioners lap. I’m currently gearing up for round two of this which kicks off in just under two hours, wish me luck. Anyway, the care package was stocked up with cards, gifts, extra tops and chocolate from home, and for the first time in my life I felt the tiniest bit homesick. Knowing that my family (probably just you, mum) had put so much effort in and so much love made me want to hug them all very tightly and let them know how much I appreciate it. But of course my mum and sister are coming over in 10 days time and I couldn’t be more excited. The best thing about time apart from your family is how much more you love them when you see them again.


I feel like I must mention the seasonnaire flu. To begin with, everyone contracted it in the first two weeks and I was laughing to myself, thinking my immune system had actually done me a good turn for a change. How wrong I was. It started out with a sniff, how did it end up like this? I’m talking phlegm everywhere, red raw throat, eyes watering like I’m making onion soup, congested up to my eyeballs, and there was one night in particular where I coughed solidly from 5.00am until 7.30am. It has made me quite literally want to shoot someone in the face or throw myself from a chairlift.

And finally, the one you’ve all been waiting for, the dreaded situationship. The problem is, I don’t even know if it is a situationship or not. It’s kind of a taboo subject and yet here I am writing all over the internet about it. So, some things just happen when you’re drunk, which is fair enough, but then when it happens again slightly less drunk, and then sober, does that make it a ‘thing’? What even is a ‘thing’? Do I like this person? Do they like me? Do you have a little ‘talk’ about whether it’s casual or something more? But then does that talk itself make it something more than it is? Do you see my problem here? I’m over here hoping I’m just over thinking the entire thing. (Most likely). The point is, in this season bubble, can you really tell if you like someone – or is it just the circumstances? We’re all away from home, Christmas is just around the corner, are we all just finding someone half-attractive enough to stumble into at midnight on New Years Eve? (However, this person in particular is probably a bit too attractive which has me even more suspicious of what is going on here.) How can you tell if chemistry is chemistry or if it’s just good company for these cold 2100m-up nights?




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