Prior to my speaking engagement in Fontainebleau, about an hour southeast of Paris, I was able to spend November 13 and 14, 1999, in the City of Light.

I hadn't been in Paris since I was a student. It was the first European city I'd seen, and the most beautiful city I could imagine. I was so captivated that I didn't bother to sleep that first night. I strolled along the Seine and got a sense of the majesty and proportions of the city. Then I savored every day of the week I was able to be there.

This time I had just two days. But memories flooded in, and I had given myself the luxury of some preparation. I read John Russell's Paris and skimmed a couple of guidebooks. Since I would be there for such a short time, I wanted to make use of every moment.

I also decided to take a book with me that would provide a framework for what I planned to see. I thought about two of my favorites: William Wiser's The Crazy Years, a portrait of Paris in the Twenties, and Gold and Fizdale's Misia: the Life of Misia Sert, the story of an extraordinary woman who became a patroness of the arts and whose life turned out to be a touchstone for the Paris arts scene from the 1890s and the Belle Epoque (from around the turn of the century until the Great War) through Les Années Folles (the crazy years) and into the Thirties.

I chose Misia. Since we're approaching the end of the millenium, I was curious about the period that called itself Fin de Siècle, the 1890s. And I also wanted to take a look at some of the painting and other art that followed the Impressionism and Post-Impressionism that, like so many Americans, I knew and loved.

My choice turned out to be a good one. Born into an artistic family, Misia came to Paris at the beginning of this decade and married Thadée Natanson, editor of the progressive Revue Blanche. Their home became a salon to the artists and writers of the day. Toulouse Lautrec mixed drinks at their parties. Bonnard and Vuillard, two Post-Impressionist painters influenced by Gauguin who had fascinated me when I studied them years ago, were among her close friends. The world of these people became real to me as I read their letters and history and felt the ambiance of the world the authors reconstructed so vividly.

The morning I arrived, November 13, was chilly but clear and sunny. My hosts selected a small hotel for me in the St. Germain des Prés area, on the left bank, down the block from the Café de Flore. I took a taxi from the airport, checked in and dropped off my luggage, and cleaned up quickly from the overnight flight. By noon I was a tourist.

I had planned to have lunch at the café des Beaux Arts, five minutes away and across the street from the Academy of the same name, but I wasn't hungry when I got there and decided to just move on.

A couple of minutes later I reached the Seine and stopped for a few moments to browse at the second hand bookseller stalls as I headed for the Pont des Artes and the Louvre Rivoli Metro stop on the other side. The monumentality of the buildings -- especially the Louvre, but others, too -- was striking. I had vaguely remembered this, but seeing it again brought it to life and gave me a renewed sense of the majesty of this city. And the view of the Seine from the bridge, with St. Chapelle and Notre Dame de Paris on one side of me and the Eiffel tower in the misty distance on the other, was glorious.

I walked down into the Metro, purchased a carnet of ten tickets even though I knew I would only use a few, and took two trains to my destination. I enjoyed this experience. The Metro is a fast and efficient system of 13 lines that criscross the city. It's used by everyone. While careful not to stare, I studied the people around me. I can't describe it, but there was expressiveness in their faces -- especially in the eyes -- that was different from expressions I might see on a train into Philadelphia or New York City. The life experience of these people has to be quite different from that of Americans to produce faces like these.

My destination was the Marmatton Museum in the 16th arrondisement (segment of the city, something like a ward; Paris is divided into twenty). It's located a good kilometer from the Metro stop, through the Ranelagh Gardens, a large park where I saw parents playing with their children and children playing in playgrounds that contained the same playground equipment that I remember from elementary school. Many of the children were playing with simple toys that looked generations old and were obviously made to last, not become obsolete or out of style. Some took donkey rides. This wonderful little park, in the well-to-do 16th, didn't have the jogging track or playground featuring elaborate climbing toys that its American counterparts would surely boast. But it had a dignity and character and continuity with the past that made it very comfortable. And the people there seemed to be relaxed and enjoying themselves.

The Marmatton houses over a hundred Monets. Monet's later works, such as the Water Lillies (1916-1919), had the largest representation. While the use of color is strong and moving, these later paintings -- many on very large canvasses -- don't have the electricity of his earlier works. There were a few important pictures, such as the Impression of Sunrise (1873), the painting that earned the "Impressionists" their derogatory name, and there were also works by other Impressionist masters. The list of artists represented, in fact, was very impressive. 

Upstairs was a large room filled with the paintings of Berthe Morrisot, one of only two women counted among the Impressionists (the other is Mary Cassatt). With the single exception of a portrait of her husband with their daughter, I found this sampling of her work disappointing. She was using broad, flimsy brushstrokes that diminished her subjects. Unlike some of her other work that I had seen on slides and reproductions, these paintings were lightweight Impressionism and didn't stand on their own. There were also several rooms devoted to the works of Jean-Francois Raffaelli, a younger follower of Degas whose work I was unfamiliar with. This is his Absinthe Drinkers.

After just over an hour in the museum I walked back to the Metro to explore the right bank. First stop: Galleries Lafayette, one of the great department stores of Paris, on the Boulevard Hausmann. It had an enormous rotunda of stained glass and balconies that looked like an ornately sculpted theater. Here I was able to replace my broken leatherd single-ring keycase with one of the same style that I hadn't been able to find anywhere in the States, but was the only design shown in Paris. Then I headed for the gourmet shop on the first floor and had the kind of aesthetic gastronomic experience that's normally reserved for an extraordinary meal. The aroma of the cheeses alone -- someone said that 300 of France's 400 indigenous varieties were represented -- would have made the trip worthwhile. In addition to all the marvelous meat, fish, and produce, there were pates and terrines galore, refrigerated kits to make specialties like Alsacian charcroute, jarred confits and cassoulets, aisles of tinned fishes, and a thirty foot display packaged varieties of smoked salmon. There was a large selection of wines too, and several snacking bars.

Afterwards I ducked into Printemps, the other large department store in the area, but by this hour on Saturday afternoon the streets had become so crowded that browsing was no longer fun, so I made my way out through the packed streets. I walked over to see the Opera, with its Chagall ceiling and the underground grotto that inspired Leroux to write The Phantom of the Opera. From there I sauntered down the Boulevard des Capucines. I wanted to see this street because I love the Monet painting of it so much. There weren't carriages or overhanging trees anymore, and it didn't seem as wide, but the buildings seemed the same and I could relate to the feelings the painting evoked.

Then I walked to the area around the Madeleine Church to see the most famous of Parisian gourmet shops, Fauchon. Its three shops had large storefronts, but together were less than half as large as the Galleries Lafayette shop. But the artistry! The glass cases contained the most meticulously prepared foods I'd ever laid eyes on. I studied them the way I studied brushstrokes on a painting. The upstairs restaurant was closed, or I would have stopped in.

By now I was getting tired. I'd only had a few hours sleep on the plane, and I had walked about five miles so far that day. So I took the Metro back to St. Germain des Prés, stopped off at my hotel, and made the only bad decision of my trip. The Brasserie Lipp was across the street. I was tired and hungry and it would have been perfect. But I had previously selected another interesting restaurant -- Perraudin, on the rue St. Jacques -- and thoughtlessly took off for the boulevard St. Germain des Prés to follow my plan.

Walking down the boulevard on a Saturday evening was wonderful. There were cafés everywhere -- a galaxy of them throughout the city -- full of people sipping apperatifs or espressos, chatting with their friends, and watching the continual parade of other people. Men and women were carrying home freshly-baked baguettes to have with dinner. People greeted each other with open affection, no matter where they happen to be. The stores were open, and there was the bustle of lots of people, lots of activity, and lots of color.

But by the time I reached rue St. Jacques, though, and realized that the restaurant would be another kilometer away, my energy fizzled. So I decided to just wander the charming sidestreets and pick a restaurant where I happened to be. Steven Birnbaum had commented that the joy of dining in Paris isn't just that there are so many superb restaurants, but that every restaurant is good because the standards are so high. I ducked into a charming little place down a side street where I happened to be and had a menu (three course meal at a fixed price) of a delicious onion soupe gratinée, salmon with a sorrel sauce, and the freshest brie I'd ever tasted. I was disappointed, though. The salmon tasted just the way I prepare it. I'm a good cook, but in Paris I expected more.

Refreshed, though, I walked over to the Seine. Part of the reason I had planned to walk to the rue St. Jacques was so that I could walk back along the river, at night, the way I had done when I was a student. Just to my right stood Notre Dame de Paris. There's scaffolding around the cathedral now -- they're obviously doing repairs -- but it was still beautiful. I let myself reminisce as I strolled back to the rue Bonaparte, the rue Jacob, and my hotel. I was tired from a full day, and I thought it made sense to try to get a good night's sleep and an early start tomorrow.

Sleeping wasn't easy because of the jet lag, but waking up early to enjoy the next day wasn't difficult. My hotel, which must cater to an international clientele, offered a sumptuous breakfast buffet -- much more than the delicious African coffee and rolls slathered with butter and jam that are apparently the standard. After breakfast I checked out, left my luggage with the concierge, and headed for the one site I wanted to see on this trip if I had to forgo all the others: the D'Orsay Museum. The D'Orsay houses art treasures from 1848 to 1917 and includes the best single collection on the planet of the Impressionists (Sisley, Pissarro, Caillebotte, Degas, Monet, Renoir, and others) and post-Impressionists (Cezanne, Gauguin, Van Gogh, and the masters of the 1890s and turn of the century, such as Bonnard, Vuillard, Redon -- I loved his Buddha, which I'd never seen before -- and Vallotton. There was also a strong collection of sculpture, especially Rodin. I spent three hours savoring these treasures, but after I saw the marvelous collection of Art Nouveau pieces, I knew I had to stop. There were just more riches than I could handle in a single visit.

At about 1:00 I went to the restaurant on the second floor. It had the grand ceiling of a 19th century ballroom. I decided to have the cold buffet to sample as wide a variety as I could of the marvelous cuisine. The cold poached salmon was delicious (better than last night's), the marinated herring had a crisper, fresher taste than I was used to, and the cold ratatouille was infused with rich flavors. Most of the other offerings, though, were unexceptional. Until dessert -- when I had the most delicious iced cream I could remember.

I spent another hour looking at Bonnard, Vuillard, Redon, Valloton, and the Art Nouveau pieces. One piece above all captivated me: a multi-paneled work by Vuillard titled cargo à quai.

I left the museum and walked through the Tuilleries Gardens towards the Louvre (which was a palace before it was a museum, and like all palaces had sumptuous gardens). The gardens were filled with children playing and people strolling. There were four cafés in the center, a large fountain where children sailed wooden boats, lots of statuary, and a carrousel.

When I exited at the Louvre, I browsed the bookseller stands again and then made my way back to St. Germain des Prés. I wanted to have an aperatif at Les Deux Maggots, but all the seats inside were taken, so I walked the short block to de Flore and found a seat inside. I picked up my book and continued where I left off. The very next passage I read was this one:

In 1894 Alexandre Natanson commissioned Vuillard to create nine large decorative panels for the dining room of his luxurious new house, at 60 avenue du Bois de Boulogne (now avenue Foch). Vuillard chose to paint women and children in the open air, a subject which in the eighteenth century Fragonard had treated in a magically idealized way. But Vuillard, who felt that a wall decoration should not impose itself, recorded everyday scenes -- women gossiping on park benches and children playing among the trees -- with an intimacy, a modesty, and an affectionate wit that have a magic of their own: one which makes the viewer long to be transported back to the Paris of the nineties.

The house they were describing was quite close to the Marmatton Museum. The panels that had the magic quality were the cargo à quai -- the multi-paneled work that had such an effect on me two hours before.

I reflected for a moment on the art I had seen over the past two days. Art Nouveau designs cascaded through my imagination. These designs originated at the turn of the last century. And I couldn't think of anything done later in the Twentiety Century that matched their grace, originality, and beauty. (When I returned to the States and composed this piece, I happened to see a segment on CBS Sunday Morning on November 28 that showed how Macy's Christmas Display for the upcoming holiday was returning to its innovative mechanical roots at the turn of the previous century, too. Maybe others are having this same perception.)

This century of such extraordinary technological change has produced a better life for hundreds of millions of people. But what has it produced in the way of art, or music, or theater that holds its own against the past? Will Tennessee Williams and Arthur Miller be as interesting in the middle of the next century as Ibsen and Shaw are today? (Probably.) Will any of the musical theater productions that have become standards achieve the stature of La Boheme, playing in every major city around the world for a hundred seasons in succession? (Doubtful.) And what about movies, this century's original art form. Will Citizen Kane or Gone with the Wind be viewed, or even remembered, at the turn of the next century? (I have no idea.)

These questions led me to a more significant one. The Twentieth Century is the first one where majorities of people -- in developed nations, in any case -- have been able to forge their own identities and lives. How do the quality of these lives measure up against those in the past, and how will they measure up against those in the future? Later on Sunday, November 28, my wife and I attended a local theater production of John van Druten's I Remember Mama. It's the story of a family of Norwegian immigrants who settled in San Francisco at the turn of the Twentieth Century. The differences between those lives and the lives of immigrants today is striking. Given a choice, which century would I rather enter?

I couldn't help being aware that I was having these thoughts at Café de Flore, and how this place, together with Café Les Deux Maggots a short block away, was home to the Lost Generation of the Twenties and the Existentialists of the Forties and Fifties. The existentialists had agonized over questions of the choices people had to make to create their lives and the illusive challenge of personal meaning. I could imagine Jean Paul Sartre chain smoking at a table across from mine. The prototypical atheistic existentialist, Sartre had argued that people were condemned to freedom, rarely faced their choices honestly, and that life was ultimately absurd. Then, having thought himself into a hole, later in his life he became a Marxist.

I read Sartre's Being and Nothingness in college -- he probably wrote some of it on the patio where I was sitting. And for whatever reason, I decided to write something too. I took out a piece of paper and began to sketch a fantasy interchange that might occur the next day, when I would be speaking. It dealt with the relationship of meaning to context in the realm of designing software interfaces. And after a few sentences, I wrote the words "Structure and Meaning." And then I paused.

For several years now my focus in bringing performance-centeredness to user interfaces has been on clarifying work contexts and task structures within them. This was the greatest lack that I saw. Over this past year, though, I've been seeing another dimension of assistance that can be added: a dimension of meaning, so that users approaching these tools can understand them intuitively without great effort. The key to penetrating this realm of meaning, I believe, is to create interfaces that tell stories. This will be my focus -- or one of them -- in 2000. When I understand it better, I hope to write about it.

I won't be dealing with personal meaning -- a far more difficult issue -- but contextual meaning and its representation. But who knows? If I can describe how to invite people into and use software easily, my few moments at Café de Flore may have significance beyond a pleasant memory. I just hope that Structure and Meaning turns out to be shorter than Being and Nothingness.