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Byline: Eva Marer
In the early nineties, I moved to Paris for what were supposed to be the best years of my life. I was 21, fresh out of college, and penniless, but what I lacked in money and prospects I made up for in qualities dear to Parisians: charm, insouciance, and plausible French. In those days I was often compared to Jean Seberg, with her gamine silhouette and trademark guileless smile (the midwestern accent helped, too). I had grand dreams, the sort one has before the responsibilities and complications of adult life take grip. Beyond the basics-finding a job and a place to live-I would pore over Balzac and Celine in the originals, window-shop on the ...