sitting in a viennese café, she orders freshly squeezed orange juice and a melange, and feels austrian. someone draws her contours with chalk to the end. a complete austrian. she looks around at people talking (no loud laughs, just smiles), reading newspapers and sipping at their melanges (french-sounding, austrian-tasting coffee) under the high imperial ceiling and, yes, she could not feel more austrian. the coffee arrives in a delicate, porcelain cup and her back relaxes a bit. nobody takes notice of her. white-faced, blue-eyed young woman, dressed in a red polo shirt and jeans, no make-up. she blends in with the crowded background. the bulky mobile phone rings. her brother, the patriot, is calling. she will return it later. she is not willing to speak her albanian mind while blending in. while having little sips of bad tasting coffee with no displeased eyes staring at her. the café is full, but people speak in polite tones (no loud laughs, these austrians know how to behave, ring her uncle's words). she feels the urge to shout, which she drowns with bitter coffee. bitter makes happy (or so), the austrians say with their wonderful wisdom that has brought them so far. not like the albanians, those lazy bastards (say the austrian/german/american albanians). she smiles the mad smile. the one other people are not supposed to see. nobody notices her here. not like in tirana. in tirana, 16-year-olds do not wear men's clothes. they wear make-up and have long wavy hair, those sirens. she is not a siren. she could be, says her aunt. with her beautiful eyes and thick hair. but austria changes people, auntie sighs. are they very cold people? i don't know about that, she would answer. they’re different. for example, they aren't nosy and inquisitive. look at her, auntie would exclaim, protecting them! she winces at her aunt’s interpretation. albanians love interpretations. you might look at the sky thinking nothing and someone will turn to you, what is it? are you ill? fever? want some paracetamol? she despises interpreting stories, also the fictional ones at school. sprich klar und deutlich, woman! she wants to yell at her aunt. like the students at school, gripping her by the collar: sprichdeutlich, kannstkeindeutsch? the patient niece explains that polo shirts are expensive women’s clothes made by that american guy, ralph lauren. if you want to look like a proper austrian girl, the pony helps. to look neat (for this animal-loving folk). her mother was obsessed with looking neat and clean. no dirt on girls. she had led the so called four-year war against the women of the no-dirt policy. and yet, there she is, neat. no accent, no dark hair. her back stiffens again. she lets her head drop forward and moves it in half-circles. relaxes the neck a little. 16 years and already with back problems. probably dead by 26. she feels like a floating island lacking an anchor. she has tried very hard to spot that anchor in the deep blue sea with green seaweed swimming on its surface. the island is always surrounded by seaweed. they deny her the right to move forward. brainless seaweed. she feels melancholia's tongue lick her lungs. cold fire swallows her heart. heart in a coffin. she misses the sea and the scorching yellow sun (not the pale and cold one). unfortunately, she can neither move backward. to the games and dirt and salt under the scorching sun. most of all, she longs for the laugh. the tear-and-spit shooting, bone-shattering laugh. the bill comes. an orange juice and a coffee cost as much as her usual daily nutrition, but she has to sit once in a while in a viennese café. alone. to feel safe.