It’s a bluebird day at Val Thorens in France, the highest ski resort in Europe, and there’s still an hour and a half till the lifts close. But unlike your diehard last-chair Rockies skier, we’ve abandoned our skis. We’ve traded the lift lines for the queues at La Folie Douce, a famous outdoor bar above a steep blue run.

To my left, a group of skiers in Hogwarts regalia bops along to house music. Artificial fog engulfs the group on the table in front of me, where a flannel-clad man is dancing in front of the crowd. He and his friends are doing lewd things with a six-liter bottle of rosé—550 euros—and taking turns drinking straight out of it. A woman sways in black sequined pants. In the right lighting, she could be mistaken for a disco ball.

“Champagne… shower. Champagne… SHOWER,” the DJ starts to chant from a balcony overlooking the wooden deck, slowly building speed and volume. He waves for the crowd to join in.

“Champagne… shower,” we chant back. “Champagne… shower. Champagne… SHOWER. CHAMPAGNE—” and then we get what we want: three bottles are popped and fizz rains from the balcony. We scream and duck, but there’s nowhere to hide from the spray. We’re packed in tighter than ski bums jockeying for the first tram of the morning.

We’re above treeline, surrounded by views of sharp, snow-covered peaks, yet the Alps are forgotten. The mountains aren’t the point—they’re the vehicle.