The hotel terrace is almost empty in mid-afternoon. The lunch crowd is gone, and the dinner crowd is yet to appear. It is hot, but there is a soothing breeze. I am sipping my drink when a couple appears. In his late thirties, he has no forehead. The back of his head is flat with his neck. In her late twenties, she is almost pretty, but it is obvious that her days are numbered. Carrying a huge camera, he stops by a board with pictures of dishes on offer. A moment later he waves impatiently at a waitress within sight and shows her one of the pictures. “Give,” he barks in Russian. “One,” he barks again and extends one of his fingers a moment later. And then he takes to photographing his consort now at one table, now at another. She pulls up a chair, sits down, smiles, and he snaps. Then she gets up, goes to another table, pulls up a chair, sits down, and so on. He takes at least a dozen pictures before his meal arrives in a soup bowl. Without even looking at her, he slurps it up in a jiffy, pulls out some money out of his shorts, leaves it at the table, and they take their leave without a word. No-frills humans to remember.