Four Croatian women in their mid- to late thirties barge onto the hotel terrace. Judging from their accent and clothing, they live in Zagreb. They are loud. One of them seems to be celebrating something or other, and she is the loudest of the gaggle. “My horoscope says that I’ll meet the man of my life on this very day,” she announces to the whole terrace soon upon arrival. There is no such man, I can see from a safe distance, and for two reasons. She would scare away Attila himself. And so would her friends. Besides, he is long dead.