Rupert St. James crosses the Atlantic for his very first Thanksgiving with distant American relatives. What follows is a polite cultural catastrophe involving oyster salad, collapsing casseroles, a Budweiser can filled with Château Pétrus, and a long, sensual speech about stuffing poultry that sends the entire family into a collective faint. Read his guide to surviving the holiday without touching a single plate of food.

Some men chase purpose; Rupert chases powder, preferably the kind served with champagne at lunch. Spotted in Gstaad, wearing only his socks and a knowing smile, he claims it’s all about freedom of movement. Perhaps it is. Between runs, rumours, and room service, Rupert reminds us that true style is a state of undress, best experienced at altitude.