When George Gershwin wrote his classic symphonic poem _An American in Paris_ in 1928, the French capital was widely regarded as the world’s cultural center and nexus of the arts and literature. Its Quartier Latin had become the adopted home of America’s postwar Lost Generation – the group of literary expatriates hosted by Gertrude Stein that included, among others, Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald and T. S. Eliot. Their Paris experience would influence the crème de la crème of American literati for generations to come.

If inspiration is what they came for, they didn’t have far to look. The horrors of World War I had given way to _les années folles_, a decade-long Parisian love-fest that witnessed a revolution in the arts and an unprecedented level of artistic and intellectual freedom. In New York, James Joyce’s _Ulysses_ had just been banned and burned, and for Hemingway, it meant it was time to grab his trusty Corona typewriter and join the party across the pond.

A moveable feast



Once in Paris, the expats could feast their eyes on the cutting-edge ballets of Stravinsky, Ravel, and Les Ballets Russes, relish the works of Picasso and Matisse, or be photographed by expat Surrealist painter Man Ray. Gershwin and fellow composer Aaron Copland studied with Nadia Boulanger and absorbed from Maurice Ravel, while an as-yet-unknown Cole Porter entertained at his lavish Left Bank villa. Meanwhile, a poor, African-American Southern girl named Josephine Baker was causing a sensation at the notorious Folies Bergère where, amid its art deco opulence, she went from cabaret idol to national icon. The title of Hemingway’s memoir of those years, _A Moveable Feast_, sums it up well.

But the orgy of sensual delight and intense intellectual activity couldn’t last forever. With the Wall Street crash of 1929, the party came to an abrupt end, and only a sporadic stream of American expats would follow. Henry Miller weathered the ensuing Great Depression with his literary circle at the Villa Seurat, where he wrote his sexually-charged masterpiece, _Tropic of Cancer_. After the war, a young James Baldwin fled Greenwich Village to find refuge on the Left Bank where, at the Café de Flore alongside philosopher-activist Jean-Paul Sartre, he would vent his rage against America’s racism and homophobia.

By the late fifties, Beat writers Allen Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs settled into a shabby, inexpensive Left Bank rooming house they aptly labeled the “Beat Hotel”. There, with the help of Ginsberg and fellow rebel Jack Kerouac, Burroughs penned his licentious, seminal novel, _Naked Lunch_. At first unpublishable, this autobiographical glimpse into the counterculture of the fifties is now praised as one of the landmarks of American literature.

Fast-forward to the spring of 1971, when a music-weary Jim Morrison left la-la land to settle in the now-trendy Marais district within walking distance of the Left Bank. A poet at heart, Morrison frequented the haunts of his expat predecessors and immersed himself in the city’s long literary legacy dating back to Rimbaud and the Romantics, only to find himself surrounded by tourists and the glitzy _tout-Paris_. Sadly, his Left Bank jaunt was to be his last tango, as his Hemingway-esque taste for whiskey led to his premature death only four months after his arrival. His grave in the venerable Père Lachaise cemetery lies alongside those of Oscar Wilde, Chopin, Edith Piaf and expat guru Gertrude Stein, and it now ranks as one of the most visited sights in Paris behind the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower.

Cultural capital or tourist trap?



Since the days of rebellion, radicalism, and romance, much of the Parisian atmosphere so sought after by intellectuals is now gone. What enticed them in the 1920s no longer exists, nor do the same compelling reasons to leave America. _L’américanisation_ – the inevitable by-product of postwar prosperity and American corporate expansion – continues to erode traditional French values. _Steak-frites_ has given way to _Mcdo_, while the neighborhood _café du coin_ is forced to compete with no fewer than 36 Starbucks locations. If you’re homesick in Paris, fret not: you’re never far from a burger or a muffin to accompany your favorite Frappuccino.

In sharp contrast to those of the last century, the new American expat has mega-bucks and a flair for the chic. Following in the footsteps of Coco Chanel, Utah-born _fashionista_ L’Wren Scott settled into a palatial Quartier Latin flat where she was inspired to create upscale designs to compete with fellow expats Tom Ford at YSL and Marc Jacobs at Louis Vuitton. Over on the Right Bank, Hollywood actors Sean Penn, Johnny Depp, and John Malkovich co-own _Man Ray_, a former movie theater recycled into one of the trendiest clubs in town, where tourists can rub shoulders with the beautiful people to the latest chill sounds à la Buddha Bar, the other swanky VIP club around the corner on the Champs-Elysées. Like Morrison, Depp admittedly prefers Paris to life in the U.S., but with the socialist government’s stern new tax laws targeting the wealthy, the Hollywood A-lister has hastily regained his U.S. residency.

Never away from his beloved Upper East Side brownstone long enough to be considered an expat, Woody Allen is a frequent visitor who longs for _les années folles_. In his 2011 film _Midnight in Paris_, he brings the halcyon days of the Lost Generation back to life, as if to pay homage to a magical era gone by. But beneath the Brooklyn-born Francophile’s yearning for romance lies the cold, hard cash of France’s generous film subsidies that can amount to a whopping 60% – a boon that would make any Hollywood mogul jealous in this era of shrinking film financing.

Now considered a playground for the rich and famous, rents in the _centre-ville_, especially the Latin Quarter, have been driven sky high, forcing artists and writers into the outlying northeast suburbs of Saint-Denis, Montreuil and Aubervilliers. Michigan artists Madeline Stillwell and Daryl Alexsy have opted for less expensive, artist-friendly Berlin, with its flourishing art scene and wildly eclectic architecture, while galleries such as Los Angeles-based Peres Projects have chosen to bypass Paris and set up shop in Berlin’s Mitte district, joining the multitude that have opened there recently. Artist colonies are springing up in nearby Kreuzberg and Neukölln, new centers of global hipsterdom where English, Spanish, Italian and Turkish are almost as common as German in the bars, coffeehouses and pop-up art galleries. With plenty of cheap, readily available gallery and living space, not to mention the great vibe, Berlin has the ingredients and chemistry that made Paris a creative mecca a century ago.

From Muse to Museum



Today, as busloads of mostly Asian tourists file into the Louvre to get a glimpse of the Mona Lisa, a sprinkling of American visitors wander along the narrow _Rue Daunou_ past the sushi bars into Harry’s, where Hemingway offered libations to his muse after dark. Across the river, the Beat Hotel is now a four-star luxury property with exposed beams and jacuzzis in the suites, “a place full of poetry where past and present mingle in a village-like atmosphere,” according to their ad. In today’s Paris, poetry has given way to rap, and the past is quickly fading behind a camp façade. What was a melting pot of minds has become the world’s largest museum. Now the subject of American Lit 101, the expats have been replaced by well-heeled Chinese travelers with deep pockets, lured to a city they see as the epitome of fashion and luxury, where _haute couture_ now reigns over _haute culture_.

The “moveable feast” may have moved on, but when I’m sitting at the Café de Flore watching the world go by and reminiscing about the past, I find solace in Humphrey Bogart’s immortal words from _Casablanca_ that echo in the opening scene of Woody Allen’s _Play It Again, Sam_: “We’ll always have Paris.”