Trains that stop suddenly, and for a long time, in all-but abandoned cornfields, and coffee kiosks next to train stations that serve the best coffee one can taste, for the few pennies left over in pockets.
People who smile, and red wine to be drunk, always a certain style, and rose oil, that when dabbed on the inner wrist of oh-so innocent shop assistants sends one dizzy with desire (though I admit it was my suggestion).
Houses built with that elusive certain style, again, to be admired, calling the imagination. To be lived in, made from wood and white plaster, with overreaching balconies.
The mountains, full of bracing breeze, and beaches, where the sand reaches into sea. And a certain taste, too, to the food, fresh, colourful, plentiful.
Yet my memories of Bulgaria have just begun, for I will be travelling there soon, again, a long journey into day and night, to see her, my mermaid, far from her Baltic coast.
footprints freshly made
melting into warm wet sand
giggles melting into air