By Eva Ciabattoni

Courtesy of the National Gallery, Prague “Sitzende Frau mit hochgezogenem Knie,” 1917, by Egon Schiele, visited the Albertina Museum in Vienna.

Shortly after I registered in town and applied for a Versicherungsnummer (similar to a Social Security number), three shiny green e-cards showed up in my mailbox. Not knowing what they were, I went downtown to inquire and was told they are our national health insurance cards. “You mean I’m insured?” I asked. “Yes.” Wow.

It seemed too good to be true. Every time I used the card, I felt like a credit card thief on the lam, racking up x-rays for my son’s thumb, broken while snowboarding, and a doctor’s visit for my daughter.

My spree ended in January at the radiology center, where they told me that I didn’t seem to be insured. Back to my friend at the downtown insurance office, who asked what I did for a living. When I told him I was a freelance writer, he sent me to “the colleague” on Kaiser Franz Ring at the insurance office for independent workers.

The colleague sat down with me and together we filled out a one-page form. He asked me to list all the types of work I do. “I write articles.” He nodded and wrote it down. “Translations.” Another nod and a notation. “And I’m working on a novel,” I added under my breath. At this, he nearly leaped out of his chair in delight, beaming from ear to ear. “You’re an artist!” he cried. “Well, I haven’t published any fiction yet,” I mumbled, which in American pretty much translates to “loser.” He was still beaming. “Artists need time! In Austria, we foster artists!” Maybe Austria learned from the Mozart tragedy; Mozart died a pauper and was buried in an unmarked grave.

The colleague sent me on my way with full health-insurance coverage (48 euros a month for all three of us, no co-pay, no restrictions, no medical prequalification exam required), an option to join the national pension system, a form to declare I’m an artist (so that the government will subsidize even these nominal expenses) and a spring in my step. I’m an artist!

And famous - at least at the Leobersdorf police station, where they have been processing the photos of my license plate as my little green Daewoo zipped past the automated radar every morning on the way to school. When I opened my mailbox the other day, it was like the scene in Harry Potter where the white envelopes from Hogwarts inundate the Dursleys’ house. I wonder if they offer a speeding ticket subsidy for artists.

And speaking of famous artists, I caught the Egon Schiele (1890-1928) exhibit at the Albertina Museum in Vienna the last weekend of its run. Featuring 130 works owned by the Albertina, as well as 90 from various collections, the exhibit showcased Schiele’s work from his beginnings at the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts, where he befriended Gustav Klimt, to his premature death from Spanish flu.

Schiele, who said, “I am human, I love death and I love life,” was an Austrian modernist whose preferred subject was the human form. Even a hundred years later, his work still comes across as bold and challenging. I loved the colors he used and how generously he applied them - the way they glowed across a room; up close, they practically leaped from the manila-colored paper with thumbtack holes in each corner.

The Vienna Woods, too, are beginning to burst with color and new life. After a long gloomy winter on which we could count on one hand the number of sunny days, spring has given us a six-day run (and counting) of sunshine. Yesterday, I saw the first spring flowers - white Schneeglöckchen (snow bells), yellow primulas, and lavender Leberblümchen (literally liver blossoms, probably after the liver-colored stems and leaves). Last Sunday, we went sledding with a cousin and her family, which meant hauling our sleds to the top of a mountain, eating a leisurely outdoor lunch of lentils and dumplings washed down with beer, relaxing in the sun that beat against the sides of the inn, then sledding down the access road at breakneck speed all the way to where the cars were parked. The dog won handily.

Eva Ciabattoni is a Los Altos resident and freelance writer living in Vienna.