It's midnight, it's chilly and I'm loitering in a small Paris street, feeling one-eighth hopeful and seven-eighths sheepish. I'm looking
for vestiges of the Twenties expat artists and writers dubbed the Lost
Generation by Gertrude Stein (because they went to war at a young age,
missing an important stage of the growing-up process). I have been inspired
by Woody Allen's latest film, Midnight in Paris , which allows Lost
Generation fan Gil (Owen Wilson) to travel back in time and party with
Ernest Hemingway, Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Pablo Picasso and Gertrude
Stein. Every midnight, a vintage car picks him up from this spot on the
street and carries him magically off to a golden age.
It is odd to be looking for someone and fleeing
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