by Kerry Lee
In 1929, the expats were sitting at the outdoor cafes along the Montparnasse, quaffing espresso by day and absinth by night. I dreamed I was there on a balmy evening, discussing Tender is the Night with F. Scott Fitzgerald, exchanging repartees with James Joyce, and watching the bus boy, Langston Hughes, clearing tables.
I'd read the work of all the famous runaways: Sherwood Anderson, Ernest Hemingway, e.e. cummings. I knew about the expat communities in Berlin and Mexico City, but I hadn't heard of another, less famous destination for expats between the two world wars. The sma...
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