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Byline: Tamasin Day-lewis
We are sitting in that cold, bright, dry air that you find only in the mountains, high up above Courchevel at our favorite lunchtime watering hole. The sky and the sun and the snow and the clonking of ski boots on wood and clinking of glasses of gluhwein conspire to remind us that all can be right with the world. We are fueled with exhilaration, invigoration, a sense of freedom that precipitates us down those white edges and curves, parabolas and heights, for one short week believing we are as the immortals, one with the gods, lucky to be alive.
Charissa, my younger daughter, and I sit with our guide, Jean Christian, awaiting my ...