I had been wanting to go to Mont Blanc my whole life. I first learned about it from my grandmother, who always imbued it with a sense of mystery and wonder, telling me that most people found it intimidating, and that no one she knew had ever actually been there. It was a cold and isolating place, sparse and desolate. Viewed from afar, it certainly looked very cold— almost lonely— like you could probably hear a pin drop, surrounded by so much deafening silence. I guessed that the people there probably went hours, maybe days at a time without ever seeing or interacting with another human being.

As I got older, and started asking people to go with me, I soon learned that my grandmother was right: everyone immediately refused. People seemed reluctant, not just because of its frigidity and loneliness, but also because apparently it was wildly expensive, and many of my friends told me point blank that they would rather spend their money on literally anything else in the world.

I won’t lie, I did find all of this very intimidating as well, but I also saw it as a challenge, and made it a personal goal to eventually go there, even if it killed me. My grandmother had long since passed away and never did get to experience this with me, as it wasn’t until I was in my early 30s that I finally worked up the courage to go into one of these Montblanc stores.

It was in North Park mall here in Dallas, the same one that my grandmother and I used to view from afar. When I entered, I saw that everything I’d been told was mostly true. The atmosphere was chilly, almost frigid, and the salespeople greeted me with a sort of weary resignation. I forgave them for being so cold, realizing that they probably hadn’t interacted with any other human person for many days. It takes a very intrepid person to enter a store where they sell fountain pens and watches for the same price as a car, so I chose to interpret their haughtiness not as rudeness or condescension, but as the kind of rustiness that comes from being in such an austere place, alone, for such a long period of time. They were probably just out of practice, so rare was it to see another human person actually inside their lofty store.

I shared with them some news from the outside world, apologizing that I couldn’t stay long, as the atmosphere in their store was simply too elevated for my humble tastes. Looking at the prices of many of their items, I found it very hard to breathe, and so I quickly said my adieus and bid them farewell. Perhaps I would see them again, from afar, as I traversed back down the other side of the mall, where the stores were much more down to earth and realistically priced.

As I left their weird little world of fancy writing pens, and the oxygen began returning to my brain, I started wondering what it must be like for them. How they could possibly fill a day, much less a week, of 8-hour shifts without going absolutely crazy? How long before insanity sets in, and they began stabbing each other with those fancy, expensive, pens, murdering each other and possibly eating their own?

And oh, yeah, I have also been to Mont Blanc, the mountain (not the store) in Chamonix France, which you can read about HERE.