In yesterday’s café early in the morningsome young people came in noisily,beautiful, charming, and with dark eyeslike an airplane leaving a trail behind.

My foreign friend just studied them a bit,turned to me saying,“These are Albanians”—he let out a smile—“your blood, that you have left behind.”

I looked at him, surprised by this assessment,you’d think he read the name upon their foreheads?“Don’t you see how they walk?” my friend said to me,“they have a walk with a rare pride.”