The terrace of the pâtisserie next to the Tihany Abbey overlooks the eastern flanks of Lake Balaton. This part of the lake is only about a third of the total length of the Balaton, but is significantly wider than the rest, giving the impression – probably only here, on the peninsula in the middle of the lake – of a water basin stretching to the horizon.
The water is in lighter shades of blue and green. The green breaks through where the wind carpet touches the water surface with its fringe.
The wind, with seemingly insufficient power today, creates something like a wave, which moves slowly, tamely, but determinedly for tens of seconds, until it dies away at the head of a pier with orange iron structures reaching deep into the open water. White sailboats dot the surface of the lake. There are enough of them to suggest an emerging regularity, but the current time of the year is more indicative of the last vestiges of an earlier regularity.
An information board on the table tells us that we are at the height of 150 metres. It also informs us that the confectionery has been in operation since 1961 and commands us to not change the table once we have placed the order.
Russians order cappuccinos as always. A woman with short blond hair is letting her grown-up son talk, listening to him with interest and seeming to acknowledge the relevance or the depth of what he is saying. A Hungarian lady in a blue-and-white-striped golf shirt points to a cloud of insects above the half-dried branches reaching the terrace parapet and repeats herself slowly, a little irritated when her German or Austrian companion – a man with sunglasses older than her and in apparently poor health – fails to understand her. ‘Did you come here with Inge?’ The man mentions some year.
September 2016