Feel free to blame Connie Francis.

In 1960, the singer starred in (and crooned the memorable theme song for) MGM's "Where the Boys Are," the sole topic of which was spring break in Fort Lauderdale, Fla.

What followed each year was a building human hurricane of swirling collegiate inebriation that blew in from the north, paralyzed city traffic and services, forced mass evacuations (among smarter locals) and left streets and beaches awash in broken glass, stale booze, wet T-shirts and makeshift restrooms.

I would blame Connie, except that from my spot along the elegant waterfront promenade -- an orchard of blue beach umbrellas in the golden sand behind me and the towering Ritz-Carlton in front of me -- the scenery seemed more Miami Beach than Mardi Gras.

Could it be that, somewhere in the past 25 years, Fort Lauderdale has quietly evolved from the capital (and Cooperstown) of drunken spring pilgrimages into a chic beach destination in the mold of its neighbor to the south? Is it possible that, once the breakers moved on to Mexico, the city became both well-healed and well-heeled?

I was in town to explore Fort Lauderdale's newer attractions and tony food scene -- as well as the overlooked charms that were there all along -- and find out whether it can achieve the urban sophistication of flashier, bigger Miami but still keep some of the beach-town feel.

And, maybe, to see if a little latent spring-break nightlife still lingers.

The movie (which also starred a number of other actors who should be held accountable) was a 1960s version of "Girls Gone Wild," focusing on discussion (and demonstration) of premarital sex, underage drinking, good-natured rioting, skinny-dipping and illicit beach limbo dancing. The story had a moral -- which, of course, was buried under the idyllic surf, sand and potential for "backseat bingo."

"It started with the college swimmers who would come down for the winter break," said Francine Mason, spokeswoman for the Greater Fort Lauderdale Convention and Visitors Bureau. "They would come back all tan and say how great the beaches were."

Fueled by word of mouth, the movie and, eventually, MTV, the already rowdy crowds grew annually. "By the time the '80s came, it really was out of control," said Ms. Mason.

During Spring Break 1985, the city trembled as more than 350,000 partiers filled the beaches, bars and streets, as well as the hospitals and jails. After the debacle, then-Mayor Robert Dressler urged the nation's students: "Go somewhere else next spring and give us a break."

There were local efforts (alcohol bans, traffic diversion, hotel occupancy enforcement), but in the end the state's raising of the drinking age to 21 probably had the biggest impact, forcing U.S. students to seek booze-fueled high jinks in Cancun and Cozumel.

Comically, in May the city will hold a "Where the Boys Are" Beach Party to mark the film's 50th anniversary, including an appearance by Connie Francis (now 71).

My base of operation was the uber-stylish W Hotel, the newest luxe property on the Fort Lauderdale Beach strip that once was lined with faded weekender motels (presumably all named some variation of "Sea Breeze" or "Vista del Mar"). Other properties nearby include the aforementioned Ritz-Carlton, the Westin Beach Resort, a Hilton resort and the Atlantic Hotel.

The W, the first in Florida, is walking distance from most of the strip's attractions and, most important, the beach.

Strolling south along Fort Lauderdale Beach, it was easy to spot two of the biggest changes since the dark days of 1985: the swerving and sloping wall of the two-mile beachfront promenade, complete with grand entries and handy showers; and the host of signs (seemingly every 20 yards) clarifying the city's position that sand and booze do not mix.

Dry zone or not, the palm-fringed stretch is a wide ribbon of golden sands to rival Cancun or Miami Beach to the south, but with fewer topless sun worshippers and hung-over clubbers. The advantage here is that it's all public beach, not cordoned off into first-class and steerage zones by swanky resorts.

Along with Connie Francis, Las Olas Boulevard is at least partly to blame for the popularity of Fort Lauderdale as a beach destination. Before 1917, you could get to the beach only by boat. City leaders, oblivious to the impending wet T-shirt contests and 2-for-1 margarita specials, built a bridge that extended the street to what is now State Highway A1A.

While it has seen good times and bad, the tree-lined Las Olas district these days is stocked with elegant bistros, boutiques and upscale chain stores that are geared as much to locals as to tourists. Many of the restaurants are French Riviera flavored, including St. Tropez Bistro, where I scored a sidewalk table beneath Perrier umbrellas, with Julien Clerk wafting from the speakers.

After lunch, I wandered Las Olas Boulevard into downtown, cutting south through Huizenga Park (yeah, that Huizenga) to the Riverfront area, a center for local nightlife, and the red-bricked Riverwalk.

Among the hot spots are the Pirate Republic Bar on the south shore of New River, and on the north side Briny Riverfront Irish Bar and Restaurant, which appeared at once crusty and encrusted (in the latter case a decor that can only be described as "flotsam chic"). Tip: Look for the giant fake shark hanging out front.

After exploring a bit -- past the Old Fort Lauderdale pioneer buildings (History in Florida? Who knew?), the Broward Center for Performing Arts and the Museum of Discovery and Science -- it's easy to find a Water Taxi stop and catch a leisurely ride back to the beach.

In the spring-break wars, few landmarks qualify for monument status more than the Elbo Room.

The two-story bar factored heavily in "Where the Boys Are" and was the eye of the spring-break hurricane most years thereafter. While it was obvious the dress code had changed since 1960 (fewer party dresses, more tattoos), the place still looked as though it were built specifically for rum-fueled festivities.

I walked past a row of open-front nightclubs, including one that claimed to be "Home of the Giant Margarita" (I looked but found no plaque to verify the bar's historical status), eventually landing at Lulu's Bait Shack, an unabashedly politically incorrect "bayou bar" that, by comparison, made the Hooters next door seem oddly sophisticated.

Festooned with signs bearing double-entendres of every kind (except the kind that can be repeated here) and serving a "cocktail" made of fruit punch and grain alcohol in a fishbowl, Lulu's struck me as two things: first, an oasis where the spirit of spring break thrives (the event is more about tourist culture than local culture); and second, the yin to the yang of the of-the-moment trendy lounges in the upscale hotels up the strip. You can't really have one without the other.

Maybe it's time to forgive Connie Francis.

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