For years, I have dreamed of Christmas in the Swiss or French Alps. My reveries involve snow-covered chalets, outdoor ice skating, dog sleds, and the clip-clop cadence of horse-drawn carriages mingled with jingle bells. I imagine quiet little alpine chapels whose beautiful steeples become snow-covered and whose windowsills are lined with a collection of candles, like angels lighting the way home. A Christmas Eve service, where a reverent rendition of “Silent Night” causes a holy hush to fall upon the sanctuary, and worshipers join the shepherds and Magi in an eternal chorus of praise for our newborn, everlasting King. My alpine dreams embrace crisp, winter mornings with snow-shoeing adventures or simple moments of stillness, of pausing to admire the exquisite perfection of a singular snowflake as it falls.
These Christmas daydreams also very prominently feature alpine breakfasts for which one is allowed to dress to the nines. Gorgeous furs and headscarves and sunglasses are the dress code for endless cups of coffee and steaming piles of pancakes, over which takes place much sparkling repartee, à la the opening scene of Charade. And in my dream place, I am always skating again, this time on a frozen pond that reflects the glorious heavenly light. Swirling violet and apricot colors glow from heaven, like a triumphant burst of praise. All alone, like a music-box dancer, I glide through a scene of icy wonder, the wind in my hair, the mountains as my backdrop, the sunset inspiring awe. In such a setting, I could skate to a piece of music or simply to the silence, my movements an expression of praise to God. I imagine even angels would pause to look down with love on the skaters who come here to carve patterns on the reflected surface of their heavenly home. My wintery dreams may not be very original. But for years, they’ve been the same: frosted, sparkling, luminescent.
I never, not once, dreamed of a Christmas on the beach. But I am realizing I should have. For the place I never anticipated ended up being one of the most surreal, even angelic settings. A pure, white, flawless pearl of a place. Alys Beach.
(And as you can see, you can still wear your best furs and gloves, bringing ski bunny energy to a beach bunny setting.)
Even if I never envisioned Christmas here, Alys Beach has been in my dreamscape. I have longed, for some time now, to see Alys’s exquisite architecture. Even from photographs, I was overcome by this pure, white pearl of a place. Alys fluently combines the architectural styles to which I am most drawn— a graceful composition of Grecian, Cape Dutch, Latin American, and Moroccan styles. Every Alys Beach home I encountered online was a masterpiece unto itself, dazzling in its originality. And yet there were such clear, guiding principles at work: every home adhered to the next, with symmetry, elegance, and clarity of thought. The town was a harmonious whole: pure white masonry molded into flowing lines and curving levels, like a flawless piece of sculpture. The design was quiet enough to draw the eye to sea and sky and lush green landscape. And how striking that alabaster looked against the turquoise waters, the azure skies.
Yet nothing could have prepared me for the in-person experience, which not only exceeded expectations, but unfolded with something of the quality of a dream. A reverie. Everything looked and felt surreal—even angelic. All those white walls and flowing lines—it was otherworldly.
These impressions were intensified by the timing of our arrival, just days before Christmas. As I walked through this pure white place, my heart could do nothing but overflow with the prayers and praises and with the lyrics to Christmas hymns. I was struck most powerfully by the reality of how beautiful heaven will be, because this earthly place (which is but a shadow) was so beautiful I could not comprehend or even process it. As my family and I walked up and down these streets, admiring the architecture, I felt, I am unworthy to even look on this. Sometimes I felt like I needed to tear my eyes away from it. It was all too much.
There was no pleasure quite like simply walking through the town and admiring the architecture, and that first walk was a revelation. Slowly, the town unfolded itself. I was overcome by its lavishness, its largesse—seemingly with each footstep, a new beauty was revealed. Reflecting on this moment later, I would be reminded of the words of Barbara Athanassiadas, a most lyrical travel writer: “Thus, my only activity is gentle strolls, without getting tired, or without searching for hidden beauties, since they are offered to me openly… this is a place to which nature has bestowed gifts lavishly, and beauty is not in the service of a dream, but of reality.” How fitting for Alys, where the boundaries between dream and reality, reverie and waking, seem never opaquer.
Every corner offers a portrait-worthy view. Not one angle of one home is unworthy of being photographed or painted. Every roofline is magical, adorned with bell or lookout towers. The roofs themselves are white and stepped, in the Bermudian style—you can’t help but think of what a privilege it would be just to have a white roof, how this one element makes everything else look more luxurious. Wooden balconies are fashioned in attractive patterns, adding beauty and interest to plaster walls. My favorite balcony had a pattern that looked somewhat like a sand dollar—not at all literal or affected, more like an artistic, abstract take on a sand dollar. Windows are mounted like jewels into the walls. Some walls feature niches in lovely forms—stars, florals, and geometric shapes; one memorable wall was covered uniformly in circles, simple but so effective.
Although Alys is renowned for its pure white palette, the accessory colors lure me most. Dazzling blues, Bermudian pastels, and frosted mints are enchanting against such a blank canvas. And Alys designers have a wonderful propensity for accessorizing with beautiful home “jewelry”: glimmering tile, pure brass lanterns and downspouts, and personalized crests and patterns stamped into stucco walls. The most memorable homes had a knack for these adornments, these inexpressible details and accessories which give a home its it factor. In truth, each home had something striking and original—whether an outdoor alcove, family crest, tiled ceiling, or a dramatically rising lookout tower, like an illustration of a faraway castle in a children’s fairy story. A window box of tropical flora, a pair of powder-pink or sea glass-painted shutters—some element of personal style. Some little something that gave each home its signature, its je ne sais quoi.
Some of the homes look like stage sets, so unreal was their beauty. Many are designed around a central courtyard, which feel more like an outdoor living room. These entry courtyards were so pristine, so grand in scale, they took your breath away. I was reminded of the Spanish courtyard and Mission and Mediterranean Revival homes to which my family is so drawn, these homes that offer a promise of a certain gentler, alfresco lifestyle. Walking along the streets and peering through the courtyard or past a fountain, sometimes behind the uncovered glass walls of the foyer, inspired fantasies of what it would be like to live here. Each home provided just a glimpse, a tantalizing whisper of what its gorgeous interiors must hold. Some created outdoor dwelling spaces, like an open-air alcove, its arched opening designed with Cape Dutch flourishes. Inside was a peaceful plastered bench—a perfect perch from which to look out on all the beauty. These outdoor dwelling spaces seemed not quite private—again, more set-like, designed as much for public admiration as personal enjoyment.
These outdoor spaces were at once organic and earthy and altogether grand—there was such a beauty to the strict palette, tropical plantings, and outdoor furniture. This, to me, is the essence of luxury—to live somewhere that encourages a better daily lifestyle, a constant and peaceful pull outdoors. The sound and presence of water is everywhere in Alys, making everything more serene. I can hardly imagine what a luxury it is to live so surrounded by water—to wake up in a master bedroom whose glass doors open to a pool, as though it is a part of the living area. To slip out onto a loggia for coffee or evening meals. To live so seamlessly and so constantly outdoors, to the extent that one’s days are full of gardens and fountains, refreshing morning swims, and peaceful evening prayers, overlooking the water.
Because it was Christmastime, everything was even more ethereal. From the center of town rose a grand tree, golden with warm lights and brass ornaments, and the streets were lined with palm sparkling palm trees that created a dazzling nighttime vista. (I must tell you, there is such a charm to a sparkling palm tree, an island Christmas.) On entering Alys Beach, one is greeted by these little white tiered structures called butteries, a piece of Bermudian architecture historically used (you guessed it!) to hold butter. Even the butteries were decorated with fairy lights and looked, to me at least, like a children’s sandcastle—fairy tale charming and sweet.
The coffee shop was completely adorable, its outdoor tables crowned with pink parasols and, inside, pastry cases trimmed with pink tinsel. I failed to photograph the “Mile High Peanut Butter Pie”—a deep regret of mine, because it was a thing of real beauty, worth weeping over.
We did almost no shopping at Alys Beach besides window shopping, which is my favorite activity at all, and very little dining, except for one very expensive brunch and one spectacularly, like almost impressively bad, dinner. It really didn’t matter– my favorite experiences are not organized experiences per se. Instead, I love to walk a town at night when everyone else has left, especially if said town is brightened with Christmas lights. I love the indecipherable feeling that comes from walking at a certain time of day, dusk perhaps, or stumbling on a pretty storefront, a cedar garland-trimmed door. It’s these indescribable, in-between moments that best capture the essence of a trip or place. Just seeing beautiful things is an activity in and of itself, and my favorite one.
There are those sights that bowl you over, like that of Caliza, Alys’s pool, with its imposing Moorish architecture, Moroccan fixtures and billowing curtains, and the most palatial cabanas and loggias I have ever seen. But then there were the beautiful trees that sheltered the house just across the street, or a trio of brightly colored shutters—these things were just as striking. So too were the sidewalks, composed of crushed pink seashells. (I mean, when you find yourself waxing poetic about sidewalks, you know you have found somewhere beautiful indeed.). In Alys, the indecipherables and in-betweens command attention as powerfully as do the grand and overtly beautiful structures.
Perhaps most dazzling were the many surfaces, from ceilings to niches and even exterior walls, covered in exquisite tile. There were ornate ceramic tiles with intricate patterns, very exotic and Moroccan. But the most beautiful tiles were without pattern, and full of luster—pale pink, white, or sea glass. Opalescent, iridescent, pearlescent, they shimmered, sparkled, and glimmered. These tiles were prettiest on ceilings, where one could walk beneath what looked like a jewel-covered canopy. The loveliest of these ceilings was covered in pearlescent tile and formed in an undulating shape, like water. You admired it from an arched opening, where a long passage stretched before you and you could see the undulating ceiling become increasingly smaller, like distant ocean waves.
And one of the most charming, artistic details of all? Some plaster openings were gracefully designed to emulate curtains, with beautiful stucco tiebacks and curlicue forms, like wainscoting on a wall. I’ve never seen a stucco “curtain,” but wow—what a storybook way to create an archway. Walk inside these curtains and you will find an intricately tiled wall niche—beauty upon beauty. Standing here, it was easy to feel like some exotic mermaid who had traded here lovely fin for feet, if only for a day. (“Strollin’ along down a– what’s the word again? Street.”)
Then there were the exterior building walls, where inlaid tiles caught the light and positively sparkled. As I walked up on one, I wondered, for a fleeting moment, if I was looking at a wall of diamonds. You laugh, but somehow, in Alys Beach, where the beauty is so unreal, things like this seem like possibility.
We would be walking through town and see a wall niche covered in tile, or a ceiling shimmering with it. It was like stumbling onto a piece of art. Were we in Morocco, Mykonos, or Florida? At times, it was truly hard to tell.
We visited many other charming 30A communities, rounding out our trip with beautiful sights and experiences. Rosemary Beach is lovely with its Cape Dutch-designed Town Hall and European-tinged town square. Guests look out on a sparkling vista of trees, culminating in a grand, sapphire centerpiece.
Seaside’s semi-circular shopping center charms with pretty storefronts, pastel awnings, and vintage post office. Pale pink scalloped awnings looked especially charming alongside palm tree plantings.
So many towns designed a little Christmas village with trees of varying heights, and of course palm trees dressed up in their Christmas diamonds. There was a fairy tale beauty and whimsy to these trees, set as they were against the unlikely beach setting—an adorable visual contrast.
As ever, God will not be outdone, and His artistry triumphed over every beautiful home and detail we saw. After admiring The Beach Club in Alys—a building so beautiful it defies description—we walked up a few levels upon the most radiant sunset. Heavenly light poured out onto the scene, orange and apricot blended with amethyst. Where we stood, everything was white—the flagstone steps, the gorgeous pool, punctuated with columns and pillars—the perfect blank canvas from which to admire these colors. And there was something to the walking up part of it; the ascent made it feel as though we had stepped onto a cloud. Aloft, afloat. The sunset was so dazzling, words fail.
God’s beauty overcomes, embraces, envelops, and touches the unseen parts of our hearts that only He comprehends. The intimacy of this moment surpassed anything hands could have built.
In the days following Christmas, God has repeatedly drawn me to a passage which conveys what I cannot fully. The tenderness of a God who knows us perfectly—knows our secret dreams and fears—and has a plan whose beauty exceeds anything we can, in our limited understanding, comprehend. “But as it is written: ‘Eye has not seen, nor ear heard, Nor have entered into the heart of man the things which God has prepared for those who love Him’” (1 Corinthians 2:9).
God’s blessings are so full and sweet that, even when we receive them, it’s less about the gift He has allowed us to have than it is about His manner of giving. So tender and personal. There is a radiance to God’s gifts that is greater than the gift itself—the blessed moment reflects His love, kindness, mercy, grace, and faultless character.
It’s often not the thing we fixate on, but the gifts we never even knew to want, that most refresh our hearts. Like receiving a gracefully hand-written letter in the mail when you were obsessively refreshing your phone for a text. God hears the essence of your request, the basic premise of it, and answers, but in a better way. He perceives factors we cannot and, in His omniscience, gives what is best.
At times He grants us a glimpse beyond the veil, a touch, and we are reminded that His Presence with us, and promise never to leave or forsake us, is the most precious blessing of all. When we get a fresh touch from God, nothing could be more beautiful. We are reminded that heaven, and our place in it, is what we are always longing for. He has stored up for us an eternal inheritance, and one day we will enjoy it without end. Those riches are too dazzling, too staggering, too wonderful, to comprehend (Ephesians 1).
Christmas is beautiful in every location it finds us, because at Christmas we worship our eternal, flawless, unchanging Savior. Someday, to bring things back home to my opening paragraphs, I may after all find myself in the alpine setting I’ve dreamed of. And God may give me something I never even knew I wanted, as I discovered this Christmas. Even if I never realize these dreams, God’s redemptive, eternal plan for me is the great dream, and I am privileged to be living it out. For every beautiful place and every beautiful longing is but a glimmer of our truest longing—for heaven and Him. How we yearn to be reunited to Him, in a place more perfect than anything our imaginations can comprehend.
Until then, what a grace it is to be given experiences more beautiful than we deserve, chief among them the privilege of an eternal, saving relationship with Christ. To be reconciled to God, redeemed, to have present salvation and a present inheritance, which we can even now, in this moment, appropriate by faith—the riches of the glory of God’s grace exceed all. I pray you know them and receive them by faith in Christ, to Whom all glory belongs, forevermore, Amen.