I was sitting in the Bulldog Pub and sipping my drink when I heard loud yelps and squeals some way away from my table. “Women,” I almost growled without looking. I thought they were having fun, but I soon heard other loud voices. “Put her on her right side,” one man was yelling. “Raise her feet up,” another one joined in. Everyone got up and stared toward a corner where a woman lied prostrate surrounded by two or three other women. They were all in their fifties. The waiters rushed to help. Water and blankets were brought in, but it took about twenty minutes for an ambulance to show up. When I got up to leave, I saw the woman’s friends standing by the ambulance van, which was closed shut. As it turned out, I knew one of the women. “What’s up?” I asked her after we shook hands. “No idea,” she lifted her hands and raised her eyebrows. “She just turned green and conked out!” The silence in the van was ominous. “Good luck,” I waved and walked away. Regardless of all the yelps and squeals, which are typical of many a watering hole in the center of Zagreb, I felt ever-so-slightly ashamed of myself. “Women,” I shook my head as I gathered some speed. Menopause most likely.