Secret Chalet Girl

There is something deeply unfashionable about admitting that you are a chalet girl. It screams either gap yah or an evasion of adulthood. It does not suggest competence or the ability to manage fifteen highly successful and demanding adults before breakfast.

And yet, here we are.

First, there is the guest interaction. Get it wrong, and you haven’t simply stuttered small talk, you have impacted someone’s one precious week of the year. These are people who have spent an eye watering amount of money to fling themselves down a mountain for six days. They have fantasised about this holiday since the previous February. They want powder, Cocoricos, and someone to laugh at Hugo’s jokes. The chalet girl stands between them, and you’ve failed.

You are the host, the cook, the cleaner, the concierge and a part time therapist often before 8am.

Then there is the pressure. It is one thing to draft a marketing strategy or cash flow forecasts, it is another to know that if the pork is overcooked, or the transfers are wrong, or there’s a spec of dust on the loo, you have probably shattered someone’s £15,000 week. The stakes feel terrifyingly high for someone in salopettes.

Yet.

I have never felt so competent in my life. I wake at 6am without resentment. I can deep-clean a bathroom to surgical standards in eight minutes. I can manage the dietary requirements of a vegan, gluten free, nut allergic toddler without breaking sweat. I can host a dinner for fifteen, ski all afternoon, and still produce canapés with some kind of energetic charm. My social battery has been stretched beyond what I thought humanly possible. All for a decent tip.

Of course there is the other side. Dancing in ski boots until 2am and then up you get, 4 hours later to poach 15 eggs. Perfectly. And don’t forget the smile.

But what has surprised me most is the calibre of people I’ve met. Not just other twenty-somethings, but serious high flyers, people who have built multiple businesses and extraordinary careers. When you serve someone dinner every night for a week, you talk.

Do I worry that future employers will glance at my CV and see “Ski Season” as code for “couldn’t be bothered”? Yes. But what looks like avoidance has, in fact, been a lesson in resilience.

Rejection teaches you to doubt yourself. A ski season teaches you to back yourself. When you have catered for 10 allergies, skied all day and still delivered a three-course dinner on time, you acquire a modest confidence. You stop panicking about assessment centres.

Perhaps a “proper job” is one with a salary and a Pret subscription.

But I am a chalet girl. I am tired. I smell of bleach and cooking. But when I do eventually swap my ski jacket for a ‘proper’ job, I will do so knowing that I can handle pressure because I have already been responsible for someone’s entire year, distilled into one week.