The fluidity of each line, the depth of each word, the image that each sentence conjures, is something loin modern writers. His concise sentences are a testament to the saying, “beauty lies in simplicity" His work is unlike any one of his time and ours. His colleagues were not inferior to him, they merely possessed different strengths.



After the war he stayed behind like so many other writers and artists. He and these other men and women helped to define a generation, one which no other can compare to. They lived in Paris and recuperated from the devastation of war; they used their creative intuitions as an outlet for the suffering of their lives. The streets of Paris inspired them; sitting outside cafés with a bottle of saint emilion wine and a pack of cigarettes, wandering along the alleys through the intertwining streets, the beauty of Paris in the twenties was unmatched anywhere else in the world and had become the center of art. Paris itself was captivating, and these talented few were able to capture its beauty and shine it on their work.


Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Pound, and Stein were the catalysts to a movement that has yet to be recreated. Their work causes artists and writers alike to flock to Paris in hope of receiving some of the inspiration that took hold of these artists. Paris is emblematic of the potential to create. This is my reason for traveling eight hundred miles to sit in café.




Like all cities the gems of Pairs are not found at the Louvre, nor at the Tour d'Eiffel, the best of Paris lies in the untrodden streets that still retain its classical beauty. Perhaps it’s a bit pretentious of me to believe this, but the clutter of other aspiring artists need for inspiration will likely get in the way of mine. There is also not much to say about a metal structure built in order for tourists to see the city.


Unfortunately now a tourist magnet, Les Deux Maggots was where Hemingway would sip on coffee and wine throughout the day. And thus the first place to visit. I sat down at a corner table where Hemingway was one pictured with a cup of coffee. The waiter patiently walked over to my table and asked,
“Bonjour monsieur, qu’est que vous voudriez?"
"Une bouteille du vin et un café gourmand, s’il vous plait."
"Bien sûr"


Although I believe imitation leads to a truly unoriginal product, walking in Hemingway's footsteps was more of a when in Rome kind of experience. Looking around a restaurant that tried to remain in the twenties the people were all normal. No one was writing, sketching, painting or even reading. Everyone was eating. When anyone ordered it was in English, no one even attempted to speak French in fear of butchering the language and being laughed at for doing so. The inhabitants of Les Duex Maggots during the twenties were famous for being the most creative and interesting people in Paris, but sitting in my corner surrounded by mediocrity I was compelled to keep my pens and paper within my bag in fear of being ridiculed for trying to tap into the faded magic of this once inspirational setting.


After two hours in Les Deux Maggots I stumbled onto the inconsiderate avenue of Saint-Germain and began to wander away from the crowds. The expectation was that I would run into an enchanting Parisian girl who could tolerate the abhorrent American accent and would lead me to the west bank of Seine and sober me up with a conversation about Gaugin’s transformation from traditionalist to symbolist to surrealist; instead I stepped on an ex-patriot with a fat dog and tipped an accordionist ten euros opposed of one. It was nine o’clock and the sun still hung in the sky as if it were two. Two transvestites extended their hairy arms towards me as I tried to avoid the inevitable curb, my head began to fall attempting to fight off my inebriation; while still trying to remain alert incase my desirable girl came trotting down the street. As my head became more and more swollen and my ears became unsynchronized with my brain I decide to seat myself on a bench outside of the Lafayette shops. Beginning to orient myself I walked into the Jewish quarter. Drunken tourists and drunken natives littered the streets with their nonsensical statements trying to seem superior to the other. The French mocking the American’s accents and the American’s pretending to understand. I sat by the Hotel de Ville and contemplated how the various sized panes were assemble in the flower like window of the Notre Dame, and how the building would have looked five hundred years ago before the white walls were stained black from the pollution emitted by the thousands of cars in Paris. The Seine was brown and black and the river side drinkers were throwing their empty handles of vodka into it. The police were crossing the bridge and kept looking forward.


The French don’t eat breakfast which is a habit that is dangerous to fall into, especially if you are a coffee addicted American wasting away a summer in Paris trying to become an inspired writer. The high acid content of coffee is unsettling to an empty stomach. Without anything in your stomach, expect a pot of coffee, one often misdiagnosis oneself with non-diabetic hypoglycemia on account of the nauseousness and excruciating headaches. Having discovered my embarrassingly low tolerance I walked to the nearest boulangerie and splurged on a two euro baguette. Sitting in the Place des Vogues with my baguette and my jaded copy of Hemingway’s “The Sun Also Rises” I saw how absurdly pretentious I must have looked to an on looker. I finished the baguette and began to wander again in hopes of finding my Parisian inspiration. Napoleon’s castle of seized art was too crowded with Japanese tourists trying to take a photo of the Mona Lisa, one the least remarkable works done by DaVinci in that time period. The Arc de Triumph was gated off and was constantly surrounded by a swarm of cars trying to navigate their way through the unorderly streets.


Paris was dull. The food was incredible, the legs the girls who walked down the street were perfectly toned and slender, and the gardens were marvelous; but I was not a food blogger, model scout nor avid gardener, I was an east coast liberal arts educated man trying to recreate a masterpiece to convince my parents that the yearly fifty thousand tuition fees were worth it because I am a creative and talented person.


I walked with my head down back to my hotel to try and escape the catastrophe that had enveloped my trip. The hotel was urbane and wealthy men stayed there with their twenty five year old mistresses, treating them to five hundred dollar meals while simultaneously looking out at the Tour d’Eiffel. Paris was a fraudulent city; portraying itself as an awe inspiring work of art. They had museums and monuments but so does Atlanta, Dublin, Beijing and Budapest; however these cities are never accredited with title such as the city of love or lights. Paris has built up its fame on the false assumption that this moment of true transcendence will occur to all of it visitors. It creates anticipation and once you have arrived, unpacked your suitcase, shower, and begin to wander, you expect inspiration or love or inspirational love to knock the wind out of you; but you continue to walk until it’s too dark to discern men from women, and you are lacking your inspiration while lost in a city incapable of seeing the importance of a grid system.


When I woke up my room was still dark and because I had forgotten to put my breakfast selection on the door handle the night before, I had no bacon no pancakes and no eggs. Downstairs the men and their girls were feeding each other assorted pastries while sipping on their beige coffee. I leave the buffet room and drag myself to the front desk to see if there is any place left worth visiting. A cute blond girl walks in behind and gives me a shy smile. I use my most ostentatious French with the concierge in order to impress her, she walks up to the lady manning the front desk and in the most excruciating American accent the girls asks where the best bar is in Paris. I quickly leave the desk and walk outside to soothe myself with the somewhat non-polluted air of Paris. The city that was once idealized as my haven has been destroyed. Tourists lurking behind every corner, people visiting the Louvre and the Orangier to say that they visited them, taking selfies in front of anything that is slightly different from the selfie takers hometown. The city was crawling with insincere poets and artists, who were just like me, but they were willing to lie to themselves to keep the image of a perfect Paris alive and well. It’s not that Hemingway or Fitzgerald lied about the impact Paris had on young writers, their words were merely unable to transcend time and remain true after ninety years.