Before moving to France from California in 2023, my ski style could have best been described as “aggressive American,” an unfortunate byproduct of early performance-based coaching, later shaped by a preoccupation with vertical tracking. Even at five years old, snowplowing between my dad’s skis down the lightest blues at Utah’s Brighton Ski Resort, I understood that, in the U.S., skiing was a sport, and mountains were for conquering.

I’ve since skied with instructors across the country—and in Switzerland, Germany, and Austria, where the goal was also to get down as quickly as possible just to do it all again. But it wasn’t until I got my first taste of skiing à la française that I realized I may have been going about things all wrong.

I arrived solo in the south part of France’s Les Trois Vallées—the world’s largest interconnected ski area—just a few months after settling my family in Paris. Here, I hired a guide from École du Ski Français (ESF), a French ski school that operates in ski resorts across the country, to help me navigate the seven resorts.

What I didn’t anticipate was how that 68-year-old Frenchman would soon change nearly everything about how—and why—I ski.

I met Gilles at the base of the resort Les Menuires, my bindings locked in and ready to go. Gilles, on the other hand, hadn’t finished his bonjours. In schools and offices throughout France, the day doesn’t begin until every person has been greeted individually; a head nod won’t suffice. Gilles had just entered his “office” and apparently knew everyone. He introduced me to colleagues he’d known for decades, and we waved to his son on his way to a ski competition. Immediately, the mountain felt more like a community than any resort I had skied before, and, instead of frustration toward the late start, I felt…let in.

The conditions worsened as we rode higher in the enclosed gondola, and, despite my innate American urge to mention the weather or ask about his boots, Gilles’ interest in me and what brought me to Les Trois Vallées drove the conversation. A few more bonjours at the top, and we were off, my mental checklist in motion as I made sure I looked the part while he observed my skiing from behind. Arms positioned. Check. Ankles flexed. Check. Chest squared. Check.

I raced down to our meeting point, hoping he’d see I was a strong enough skier to take on lesser-known runs, but instead he just smiled and offered me a small piece of chocolate he’d been storing in his jacket.

No talk of form.

No critiques.

No tweaks.

“In America, we ski with protein bars,” I laughed and popped the chocolate into my mouth. “Then we don’t have to stop for lunch.”

“Why don’t you eat lunch?” Gilles asked, genuinely concerned that anyone would miss out on the pleasure of a long meal.

I tried to explain how some people stop for a quick burger or chowder, but most American skiers I knew go hard for as long as possible, and then go just as hard for just as long during après. I changed the subject and asked if he had any pointers for me, remembering he had skied competitively and taught lessons.

“I would say, try not to be so stiff,” he offered. “Lower your arms and relax a bit, then just feel the mountain beneath you. Enjoy its spirit.”

My surprise was visible. I was used to words like “engage,” “tighten,” and “flex,” but…“relax?” “Spirit?!”

He introduced me to edging, where just the tiniest pressure from my foot could change my direction if I let myself move with the snow and not force myself through it.

I accepted another piece of chocolate and let it melt in my mouth while he launched first for the next run. His style was striking. His turns were tight, but he moved with a natural confidence that just made it all seem so effortless. Also, he genuinely seemed to be having a blast.

“Feel the mountain,” I replayed in my head, deciding to give his advice a shot. I lowered my arms and let the packed snow beneath me determine my turns. Then an amazing thing happened. It worked. I felt relaxed yet completely in control. I let my skis guide me as I took in the mountain instead of rushing down it, breathing in the sweet smell of spruce as I wound through the trees and smiling as I landed side hits with an uncanny softness.

We paused to take in the scenery or talk with other skiers, and the more I relaxed and tried to feel the snow beneath me, the better I skied. I used to believe that my form would get me where I needed to go, and, after just a short morning with Gilles, I realized it was a joint effort: form and mountain.

“Quel plaisir!” [What a pleasure!] Gilles sighed as we popped our bindings off and made our way to the nearby Au Torè restaurant in Saint-Martin-de-Belleville for lunch.

And that’s when it hit me. In France, skiing isn’t just a sport; it’s the entire mountain experience. The snow, the relationships, the scenery, the wine, the chocolate, the “spirit of the mountain.” All of it, a plaisir.