Emily in Paris invites us to enjoy a familiar cultural theme. An irrepressibly upbeat American arrives in France armed with pastel blazers, social-media optimism, and a belief that enthusiasm can smooth any cultural misstep.

The Parisians sigh, roll their eyes, correct her French, and eventually make a place in their heart for her. The humour works because it is affectionate. Emily’s Americanness is naïve rather than threatening; her misreadings are social, not political. She is the latest in a long line of cinematic Americans abroad who learn, stumble, and by the final reel belong.

So much so, that President Emmanuel Macron shared in the French outcry when it was announced that Emily was heading to Rome for the fifth season.

But culture has a way of catching up with politics. And politics, of late, has been moving fast.

Beyond the wink in the headline of this article is a more serious question: are Americans still welcome across Europe? Can they move through cafés, offices, and neighbourhoods without the sense that a passport has become a liability. As attitudes shift in response to geopolitics, trade, and rhetoric, the experience of being “the American” is changing. Emily’s Paris may still be glamorous, but the air has grown more complicated.

Emily, the archetype

Emily Cooper, our fictional emissary belongs to a lineage. From postwar Hollywood to Netflix-era rom-coms, Americans abroad have often been depicted as earnest outsiders whose sincerity wins over a more jaded Europe. Think of the 1950s fantasy of Americans who arrive with dollars, smiles, and a belief in possibility. Europe offers history, style, and restraint. Sparks fly, lessons are learned, and everyone benefits.

In Emily in Paris, that formula is updated for Instagram. Emily’s faux pas are fashion-forward, her optimism is algorithmic. Paris is both a dream and a mirror; it reflects American confidence back with irony. When the series decamps to Rome, the premise follows her in a new city with the same wide-eyed curiosity. Europe, in this telling, is a place that resists at first and then embraces.

What makes this work is that Emily is not a stand-in for American power. She is a young professional, not a policymaker. Her Americanness is personal, not imperial.

From charming to charged

That distinction matters more now than it did a decade ago. In recent years, many Europeans have watched American politics with a mix of fascination and alarm. The latest actions and rhetoric from the Donald Trump administration, particularly the revived ideas of acquiring Greenland and turning away from NATO have reignited anxieties about how the United States sees the world and its allies.

On paper, the Greenland proposal can be framed as strategic real estate, a discussion of security and resources. In practice, it landed as something else: a reminder of an older, cruder language of power. Even when floated as a “deal,” the notion of purchasing an island associated with Denmark struck many Europeans as tone-deaf. It was not just about Greenland, which to be precise, is not part of Europe and enjoys significant autonomy, but about the posture implied. Who gets to buy what? And who gets to say no?

These questions don’t stay in policy papers. They seep into dinner conversations, op-eds, and eventually into the way people look at the American accent across the table.

A long memory of land deals

Irony abounds here, and history complicates the outrage. The United States has, after all, been built in part through land transactions with Europe. The Louisiana Purchase, when France sold a vast swath of North America for $15 million, is often celebrated as one of history’s great bargains. It was pragmatic on both sides: France needed cash, while the young republic needed room to grow.

Then there is the apocryphal (and oversimplified) tale of Manhattan being “bought for beads” from the Lenape by the Dutch – less a fair market transaction than a symbol of colonial imbalance. These stories linger in cultural memory as proof that land has long been treated as negotiable between Europe and America.

But context matters. The Louisiana Purchase occurred in a world of empires and colonies; Greenland exists in a world that claims to prize self-determination. The past explains the irony, not the discomfort.

The American abroad, then and now

In the 1950s, Hollywood exported a specific image of the American in Europe: prosperous, romantic, and slightly innocent. Films like Roman Holiday, with Audrey Hepburn (admittedly a European) gliding through Rome presented Europe as a stage on which American spontaneity could play. The Cold War context mattered. The United States was the liberator, the benefactor, the guarantor of security. Being American carried moral weight.

Fast-forward to the streaming age, and the power dynamics feel less settled. Europe is no longer rebuilding; it is negotiating its place between superpowers. Climate policy, digital regulation, and defense spending all feature transatlantic friction. The American abroad is still visible, but now also symbolic of debates about capitalism, culture, and influence.

This does not translate into open hostility. Most Europeans can, and do, distinguish between governments and people. But symbols are sticky. An accent can trigger assumptions, and a passport can invite questions.

Tourism versus belonging

There is an important distinction between being a tourist and being a resident. Tourists pass through; residents participate. For American tourists, Europe remains largely welcoming despite the protests in Barcelona and Venice. Cities depend on visitors, and curiosity about American life runs both ways. The clichés – loud voices, obsession with ice in their drinks – persist, but they are old stereotypes, not new resentments.

For Americans who live and work in Europe, the calculus is subtler. It’s no longer enough to stitch a Canadian badge on your backpack. Many report feeling the need to signal distance from Washington politics, to clarify values early and often. “I’m American, but…” has become a conversational reflex. 

Emily, were she real, would likely do this instinctively. Her brand-friendly earnestness would translate into reassurances: she loves Europe, respects local culture, adores the pain au chocolat and recycles. The show hints at this dynamic without naming it. 

Europe’s own anxieties

It would be misleading to frame this as a one-way judgment. Europe is not a monolith, and attitudes toward Americans vary by country, city, and generation. In some places, skepticism toward the United States is intertwined with broader concerns about globalisation and cultural homogenisation. In others, admiration for American creativity and diversity remains strong.

Moreover, European politics is hardly immune to the populist currents reshaping the United States. Discomfort with American rhetoric sometimes masks discomfort with domestic change. The American becomes a screen onto which anxieties are projected.

That is why the Greenland episode resonates so sharply. It touches a nerve about sovereignty, respect, and the fear of being treated as a junior partner. For Europeans who value the transatlantic alliance, the worry is not that Americans will arrive en masse to buy land, but that the language of partnership is eroding.

Is Emily still welcome?

So, back to the question. Is Emily still welcome in Paris – or Rome, or Copenhagen, or Madrid?

In the literal sense, yes. Europe is not closing its doors to Americans. Visas are still issued; jobs are still offered; friendships still form. The social contract of everyday life holds.

In the symbolic sense, Emily’s welcome depends on her awareness. The era of the unexamined American abroad is ending. What replaces it is not hostility but accountability. Americans are more likely to be read as representatives, willingly or not of their country’s choices. Navigating that reality requires humility, listening, and a willingness to be more than the stereotype.

This is not entirely new. Every generation of Americans abroad has had to contend with its country’s image, from Vietnam to Iraq. What feels different now is the speed at which politics cycles into culture, amplified by social media and streaming narratives. Emily’s Paris is filmed in a world where headlines travel faster than fashion trends.

The enduring appeal

And yet, the fascination endures. Europeans still binge American shows; Americans still dream of European lives. The exchange remains lopsided in some ways, but it is alive. Cultural references, from afternoon tea in London to tech hubs in Berlin testify to a relationship that is resilient precisely because it is complicated.

Perhaps that is the final lesson of Emily’s story. The charm of the American abroad was never about being universally adored. It was about learning to see oneself through another culture’s eyes and adjusting accordingly. If Americans in Europe feel a little less automatically welcome, that may be an invitation rather than a rebuke.

Emily, were she paying attention, would take notes.

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