Magyar for "let's just forget about those peesticks."

If I had to get my period, at least I was lucky enough to be distracted from it by the glory of the "Hungarian sea," to the shores of which we were spirited away by good friends and their little blond brown-eyed black-eyelashed nut of a boy, who cracked my heart apart a tiny bit more every time he asked Gilles to help him pick ribizli berries or bent down at a patch of weeds to pluck a flower for me to tuck behind my ear.

The particular part of the lake where we were staying, with its grassy park, warm shallow cove, and line of ice cream concession stands, was "perfect for families" – or so an otherwise emotionally astute husband might remark if he (mistakenly) didn't imagine that such an observation would cause his childless menstruating miscarrier of a wife to burst into tears that salted the gentle waters with bitterness. Despite that, it was also perfect for said childless menstruating miscarrying wife in that it had a bar teeming with late-night dancing and loud music and all the palinka she could care to enjoy. So. There are benefits.

And lest you think I am forgetting what made the location perfect for the male half of this barren heirless equation, well, it was by kind coincidence that the same beachfront bar just happened to be hosting the local Miss Something-or-other beauty contest, replete with swimwear, evening gown, and streetwalking costume changes as well as a token short interview. Which added no value to the judging, according to our section of the audience. All nubile young goddesses speaking Hungarian while clad in only the bare minimum appear equally ... intelligent.

unfortunately, we didn't have the camera with us during
the beauty contest. but the lake is equally lovely, surely.