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PARIS: I started swimming in Paris in 2003, shortly after an orthopedic surgeon in New York viewed my X-rays and told me I had the knees of a 65-year-old.

That might have been good news for someone in her golden years, but for a woman just tipping into her 40s, the diagnosis was bleak. I had been running for the past year in the verdant expanses of the Bois de Boulogne, the former royal hunting ground filled with tree-lined paths bordering lakes dotted with ducks. But every footfall now sounded the death knell for whatever articular cartilage remained nestled between my femurs and my tibias.

I cant blame France for my knees; much damage had already been done on U.S. soil before my move. But running was the easiest way to exercise in Paris and I was stymied about what to do instead. Parisians are generally slim and fit, but as far as I could tell, that was a matter of genetics and their admirable disinclination to eat between meals. The citys gyms are cramped and expensive, featuring shrill, high-impact aerobic classes that peaked in the United States more than a decade ago. Besides an occasional liaison amoureuse, the French seemed to limit their physical exertions to slipping on sunglasses at outdoor cafйs.

However, my orthopedic surgeon had warned against inertia, and I found that without my forays into the Bois I was withdrawing from the French world around me. So I decided to swim.

Like most Americans brought up in the suburbs, I could whip off a lap or two. Not tremendously well - the butterfly and flip turn were skills I had never acquired - but I had clocked enough time playing “Marco Polo” and diving for pennies to feel comfortable in chlorine.

Those remotely nostalgic associations pushed me in the direction of the municipal pool closest to my apartment on the western edge of the city. The pool, Piscine Henry de Montherlant, was named after a noted French essayist and academician; to my rah-rah American ears, that sounded pretty low-impact.

Thats not to say swimming а la franзaise isnt stressful. First off, men need to squeeze into skimpy Speedos. Theres no bending that rule, and it applies to all of the citys 37 municipal pools. The reason most often given is hygiene: There should be nothing worn into the pool that could conceivably have been worn elsewhere, like boxer shorts or Bermudas. No matter the genesis, the Speedo is de rigueur for men - and, to add insult to injury, so is a bathing cap.

But you really cant get much closer to the French than when brushing up against their bare skin. That happens often in Paris pools, especially if youve got a guy sprawled on his back ahead of you in the “lap lane,” flinging his arms lazily to propel himself forward. I imagine that, in the cutthroat pools of U.S. cities, where every lane seems like a racing lane, a militant lifeguard would intervene. But in Paris, swimming is a relative term. Here the lifeguards, known as maоtres nageurs, simply sit back in their folding chairs and watch the goings-on as if they were beachside in St. Tropez.

Admittedly, swimming during a workweek lunch hour is the same in Paris as anywhere; a pool full of professionals trying to cram in a workout before wolfing down a ham and cheese sandwich on the way back to the office. But at the busiest times, a politesse still hovers over the pool like the smell of chlorine. There is the occasional bumping of heads, an inadvertent swipe of an errant hand on a neighbors leg. But a simple “je suis dйsolйe” or “excusez-moi,” uttered from behind foggy goggles, is enough to keep ripples to a minimum.

It took me a while, but once I had corralled my instinctive irritation at the leisurely head-above-the-water breaststrokers, and stopped my eye-rolling at young women who come to “exercise” in string bikinis, I discovered that my piscine was a pretty wonderful place, and not for the reasons I had expected. Yes, the swimming kept my knees fit, but what was even better was the glimpse into French society that had evaded me on dry land.

One Saturday morning, a pack of strapping, young firemen parked their fire truck outside the pool, changed into bikini bottoms, and spent 30 minutes racing splashily across the pool when I was the only other person in it. Ive shared the unisex locker room with a young priest who arrives carrying a backpack and bike helmet, his clerical collar visible beneath a red down jacket. He changes in one of the stalls and emerges in a tiny black suit, his broad-shouldered, tapered physique worthy of a Chippendales dancer.

BERLIN: “What New York was in the 80s. Berlin is now,” says Nadja Vancauwenberghe, the French editor in chief of an English-language magazine in Berlin: Exberliner. “Thats the clichй.” And she shakes her head and smiles.

“The reality,” Maurice Frank, the Exberliners publisher, chimes in, “is that rents here are a third of what they are in Paris or London.”

The two of them are trying to explain why Berlin has emerged as the creative capital of Europe, if not the world. “Its cool, its cheap, its international,” Vancauwenberghe says.

“But its kind of a feedback loop at this point,” Frank adds. In other words, the people who are immigrating now are not drawn by Berlin, but rather by the clichй, the mystique that has grown with immigration - and they are finding it in the citys vast expatriate population.

Berlin, the biggest city in continental Europe by far, has been losing its German population for years, but for the past five - the five years that Exberliner has been publishing - that loss has been more than made up by foreigners. And they are settling down: buying funky apartments, starting creative businesses, having precocious children.

“Were a little overrun,” Vancauwenberghe says, looking out her window. For a long time, the neighborhood outside, Prenzlauer Berg, had a thriving international squat scene. Today the main strip is choked with baby strollers and stylish boutiques.

The expatriates gentrifying Prenzlauer Berg are creative types, who do not necessarily want standard careers. This is probably a good thing, because the unemployment rate in Berlin is about 20 percent.

There may not be many opportunities for regular employment, but there are plenty of good gigs. For musicians, Berlin is an ideal staging ground: Its location makes touring Europe easy, and more profitable. For visual artists, it is all about the citys cultural wealth. The legacy of the divided city means that there are twice as many museums and institutions that support art.

Plus, social tolerance has taken root. Where else would the mayor, who is openly gay, roll out an official welcome to a gathering of sadomasochist conventioneers, praising their party weekend as “pure joie de vivre?” As Mayor Klaus Wowereit likes to say about his city, “We are poor, but sexy.”

According to the last census, in 2006, there were about 13,100 Americans here, and, invariably, they cite Berlins bohemian side as the draw. “I interview Americans all the time, and theyll tell you they moved here to get away from George Bush,” Vancauwenberghe says. “But if you dig a little deeper, 8 times out of 10 theyve come on behalf of a German boyfriend or girlfriend. Usually the relationship doesnt last, but they stay anyway, because theyve fallen in love with the city.”

Toby Dammit and Jessie Evans are professional musicians from the United States who found each other in Berlin. Dammit, 41, is a musicians musician, who played for many years with Iggy Pop. He moved here from New York in 2006, wanting to step off the treadmill. “I was making money, but it doesnt matter how hard you work in New York, you end up throwing it out the window,” says Dammit, who counts two of the most famous expatriates in Berlin, the musicians Rufus Wainwright and Peaches, as friends.

Evans, a veteran of various “slutty all-girl punk bands,” moved from San Francisco in 2004 to reinvent herself as a chanteuse. The best thing about the place, according to the aspiring singer, is that “you dont have to be famous to get respect as an artist.”

Jean Griffin Borho, who arrived here two years ago, is not an artist but rather a patron and collector who grew up in Manhattan and ended up marrying a German man who ran a hedge fund in New York. They divorced and Borho decided to pick up the pieces in Germany. She came to build a new life as an art consultant catering to U.S. collectors curious about the Berlin scene, but she was also glad to say “Auf Wiedersehen” to her hometown.

Dean Sameshima, an artist from Los Angeles, came for the opening of his first Berlin show at the gallery Peres Projects about a year ago and never really left. “In L.A., my studio was my bedroom, but here I can afford studio space,” he says. “And a studio assistant.”

According to Robert Goff, of Goff + Rosenthal, one of the first New York galleries to open a Berlin branch, “the low rents have made Berlin the art-production capital of Europe. At least half of the young artists I meet in New York are seriously thinking about moving to Berlin to work.”

PARIS: I started swimming in Paris in 2003, shortly after an orthopedic surgeon in New York viewed my X-rays and told me I had the knees of a 65-year-old.

That might have been good news for someone in her golden years, but for a woman just tipping into her 40s, the diagnosis was bleak. I had been running for the past year in the verdant expanses of the Bois de Boulogne, the former royal hunting ground filled with tree-lined paths bordering lakes dotted with ducks. But every footfall now sounded the death knell for whatever articular cartilage remained nestled between my femurs and my tibias.

I cant blame France for my knees; much damage had already been done on U.S. soil before my move. But running was the easiest way to exercise in Paris and I was stymied about what to do instead. Parisians are generally slim and fit, but as far as I could tell, that was a matter of genetics and their admirable disinclination to eat between meals. The citys gyms are cramped and expensive, featuring shrill, high-impact aerobic classes that peaked in the United States more than a decade ago. Besides an occasional liaison amoureuse, the French seemed to limit their physical exertions to slipping on sunglasses at outdoor cafйs.

However, my orthopedic surgeon had warned against inertia, and I found that without my forays into the Bois I was withdrawing from the French world around me. So I decided to swim.

Like most Americans brought up in the suburbs, I could whip off a lap or two. Not tremendously well - the butterfly and flip turn were skills I had never acquired - but I had clocked enough time playing “Marco Polo” and diving for pennies to feel comfortable in chlorine.

Those remotely nostalgic associations pushed me in the direction of the municipal pool closest to my apartment on the western edge of the city. The pool, Piscine Henry de Montherlant, was named after a noted French essayist and academician; to my rah-rah American ears, that sounded pretty low-impact.

Thats not to say swimming а la franзaise isnt stressful. First off, men need to squeeze into skimpy Speedos. Theres no bending that rule, and it applies to all of the citys 37 municipal pools. The reason most often given is hygiene: There should be nothing worn into the pool that could conceivably have been worn elsewhere, like boxer shorts or Bermudas. No matter the genesis, the Speedo is de rigueur for men - and, to add insult to injury, so is a bathing cap.

But you really cant get much closer to the French than when brushing up against their bare skin. That happens often in Paris pools, especially if youve got a guy sprawled on his back ahead of you in the “lap lane,” flinging his arms lazily to propel himself forward. I imagine that, in the cutthroat pools of U.S. cities, where every lane seems like a racing lane, a militant lifeguard would intervene. But in Paris, swimming is a relative term. Here the lifeguards, known as maоtres nageurs, simply sit back in their folding chairs and watch the goings-on as if they were beachside in St. Tropez.

Admittedly, swimming during a workweek lunch hour is the same in Paris as anywhere; a pool full of professionals trying to cram in a workout before wolfing down a ham and cheese sandwich on the way back to the office. But at the busiest times, a politesse still hovers over the pool like the smell of chlorine. There is the occasional bumping of heads, an inadvertent swipe of an errant hand on a neighbors leg. But a simple “je suis dйsolйe” or “excusez-moi,” uttered from behind foggy goggles, is enough to keep ripples to a minimum.

It took me a while, but once I had corralled my instinctive irritation at the leisurely head-above-the-water breaststrokers, and stopped my eye-rolling at young women who come to “exercise” in string bikinis, I discovered that my piscine was a pretty wonderful place, and not for the reasons I had expected. Yes, the swimming kept my knees fit, but what was even better was the glimpse into French society that had evaded me on dry land.

One Saturday morning, a pack of strapping, young firemen parked their fire truck outside the pool, changed into bikini bottoms, and spent 30 minutes racing splashily across the pool when I was the only other person in it. Ive shared the unisex locker room with a young priest who arrives carrying a backpack and bike helmet, his clerical collar visible beneath a red down jacket. He changes in one of the stalls and emerges in a tiny black suit, his broad-shouldered, tapered physique worthy of a Chippendales dancer.

BERLIN: “What New York was in the 80s. Berlin is now,” says Nadja Vancauwenberghe, the French editor in chief of an English-language magazine in Berlin: Exberliner. “Thats the clichй.” And she shakes her head and smiles.

“The reality,” Maurice Frank, the Exberliners publisher, chimes in, “is that rents here are a third of what they are in Paris or London.”

The two of them are trying to explain why Berlin has emerged as the creative capital of Europe, if not the world. “Its cool, its cheap, its international,” Vancauwenberghe says.

“But its kind of a feedback loop at this point,” Frank adds. In other words, the people who are immigrating now are not drawn by Berlin, but rather by the clichй, the mystique that has grown with immigration - and they are finding it in the citys vast expatriate population.

Berlin, the biggest city in continental Europe by far, has been losing its German population for years, but for the past five - the five years that Exberliner has been publishing - that loss has been more than made up by foreigners. And they are settling down: buying funky apartments, starting creative businesses, having precocious children.

“Were a little overrun,” Vancauwenberghe says, looking out her window. For a long time, the neighborhood outside, Prenzlauer Berg, had a thriving international squat scene. Today the main strip is choked with baby strollers and stylish boutiques.

The expatriates gentrifying Prenzlauer Berg are creative types, who do not necessarily want standard careers. This is probably a good thing, because the unemployment rate in Berlin is about 20 percent.

There may not be many opportunities for regular employment, but there are plenty of good gigs. For musicians, Berlin is an ideal staging ground: Its location makes touring Europe easy, and more profitable. For visual artists, it is all about the citys cultural wealth. The legacy of the divided city means that there are twice as many museums and institutions that support art.

Plus, social tolerance has taken root. Where else would the mayor, who is openly gay, roll out an official welcome to a gathering of sadomasochist conventioneers, praising their party weekend as “pure joie de vivre?” As Mayor Klaus Wowereit likes to say about his city, “We are poor, but sexy.”

According to the last census, in 2006, there were about 13,100 Americans here, and, invariably, they cite Berlins bohemian side as the draw. “I interview Americans all the time, and theyll tell you they moved here to get away from George Bush,” Vancauwenberghe says. “But if you dig a little deeper, 8 times out of 10 theyve come on behalf of a German boyfriend or girlfriend. Usually the relationship doesnt last, but they stay anyway, because theyve fallen in love with the city.”

Toby Dammit and Jessie Evans are professional musicians from the United States who found each other in Berlin. Dammit, 41, is a musicians musician, who played for many years with Iggy Pop. He moved here from New York in 2006, wanting to step off the treadmill. “I was making money, but it doesnt matter how hard you work in New York, you end up throwing it out the window,” says Dammit, who counts two of the most famous expatriates in Berlin, the musicians Rufus Wainwright and Peaches, as friends.

Evans, a veteran of various “slutty all-girl punk bands,” moved from San Francisco in 2004 to reinvent herself as a chanteuse. The best thing about the place, according to the aspiring singer, is that “you dont have to be famous to get respect as an artist.”

Jean Griffin Borho, who arrived here two years ago, is not an artist but rather a patron and collector who grew up in Manhattan and ended up marrying a German man who ran a hedge fund in New York. They divorced and Borho decided to pick up the pieces in Germany. She came to build a new life as an art consultant catering to U.S. collectors curious about the Berlin scene, but she was also glad to say “Auf Wiedersehen” to her hometown.

Dean Sameshima, an artist from Los Angeles, came for the opening of his first Berlin show at the gallery Peres Projects about a year ago and never really left. “In L.A., my studio was my bedroom, but here I can afford studio space,” he says. “And a studio assistant.”

According to Robert Goff, of Goff + Rosenthal, one of the first New York galleries to open a Berlin branch, “the low rents have made Berlin the art-production capital of Europe. At least half of the young artists I meet in New York are seriously thinking about moving to Berlin to work.”

BERLIN: “What New York was in the 80s. Berlin is now,” says Nadja Vancauwenberghe, the French editor in chief of an English-language magazine in Berlin: Exberliner. “Thats the clichй.” And she shakes her head and smiles.

“The reality,” Maurice Frank, the Exberliners publisher, chimes in, “is that rents here are a third of what they are in Paris or London.”

The two of them are trying to explain why Berlin has emerged as the creative capital of Europe, if not the world. “Its cool, its cheap, its international,” Vancauwenberghe says.

“But its kind of a feedback loop at this point,” Frank adds. In other words, the people who are immigrating now are not drawn by Berlin, but rather by the clichй, the mystique that has grown with immigration - and they are finding it in the citys vast expatriate population.

Berlin, the biggest city in continental Europe by far, has been losing its German population for years, but for the past five - the five years that Exberliner has been publishing - that loss has been more than made up by foreigners. And they are settling down: buying funky apartments, starting creative businesses, having precocious children.

“Were a little overrun,” Vancauwenberghe says, looking out her window. For a long time, the neighborhood outside, Prenzlauer Berg, had a thriving international squat scene. Today the main strip is choked with baby strollers and stylish boutiques.

The expatriates gentrifying Prenzlauer Berg are creative types, who do not necessarily want standard careers. This is probably a good thing, because the unemployment rate in Berlin is about 20 percent.

There may not be many opportunities for regular employment, but there are plenty of good gigs. For musicians, Berlin is an ideal staging ground: Its location makes touring Europe easy, and more profitable. For visual artists, it is all about the citys cultural wealth. The legacy of the divided city means that there are twice as many museums and institutions that support art.

Plus, social tolerance has taken root. Where else would the mayor, who is openly gay, roll out an official welcome to a gathering of sadomasochist conventioneers, praising their party weekend as “pure joie de vivre?” As Mayor Klaus Wowereit likes to say about his city, “We are poor, but sexy.”

According to the last census, in 2006, there were about 13,100 Americans here, and, invariably, they cite Berlins bohemian side as the draw. “I interview Americans all the time, and theyll tell you they moved here to get away from George Bush,” Vancauwenberghe says. “But if you dig a little deeper, 8 times out of 10 theyve come on behalf of a German boyfriend or girlfriend. Usually the relationship doesnt last, but they stay anyway, because theyve fallen in love with the city.”

Toby Dammit and Jessie Evans are professional musicians from the United States who found each other in Berlin. Dammit, 41, is a musicians musician, who played for many years with Iggy Pop. He moved here from New York in 2006, wanting to step off the treadmill. “I was making money, but it doesnt matter how hard you work in New York, you end up throwing it out the window,” says Dammit, who counts two of the most famous expatriates in Berlin, the musicians Rufus Wainwright and Peaches, as friends.

Evans, a veteran of various “slutty all-girl punk bands,” moved from San Francisco in 2004 to reinvent herself as a chanteuse. The best thing about the place, according to the aspiring singer, is that “you dont have to be famous to get respect as an artist.”

Jean Griffin Borho, who arrived here two years ago, is not an artist but rather a patron and collector who grew up in Manhattan and ended up marrying a German man who ran a hedge fund in New York. They divorced and Borho decided to pick up the pieces in Germany. She came to build a new life as an art consultant catering to U.S. collectors curious about the Berlin scene, but she was also glad to say “Auf Wiedersehen” to her hometown.

Dean Sameshima, an artist from Los Angeles, came for the opening of his first Berlin show at the gallery Peres Projects about a year ago and never really left. “In L.A., my studio was my bedroom, but here I can afford studio space,” he says. “And a studio assistant.”

According to Robert Goff, of Goff + Rosenthal, one of the first New York galleries to open a Berlin branch, “the low rents have made Berlin the art-production capital of Europe. At least half of the young artists I meet in New York are seriously thinking about moving to Berlin to work.”