Klein is a New York fashionista with a great résumé, a terrific Big-Shot Boyfriend (on paper), and a show-stopping Tribeca triplex. She has trunkfuls of fabulous footwear, but not the significant relationship she'd longed -- no, expected -- to have by now. And there's something else: she's fou (that's crazy) for France, for French men, for la vie francaise. Fleeing her Big-Shot Boyfriend and bidding adieu to it all, Klein starts over in Paris.
From a tiny walk-up in the 7th that she had to lie (in broken Franglais) to get, Klein plunges into the mysterious world of Gallic Men: the casually sexy Alexandre, a prototypical Frenchman with a flute of Moët and Gauloise always at the ready; trying to keep everybody straight when she dates three men named Jean at the same time; and one completely wrong Monsieur Married Aristocrat, who wants Klein for his very well-kept mistress.
An American in Paris never had life so good -- vin blanc at Café de Flore, painting in a garret, afternoons in the Jardins du Luxembourg -- or so bad. But Klein isn't going to get over her passion for France and its men anytime soon. Paris Hangover is a funny, fresh novel about trying on a new life for size -- and about cherching I'homme in the process.
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