The keys of the bandeon pitter and patter. Tones of Spanish text fuelled with passion, tears and blood vocalise through a breath. The dancers fuse and glide. Closer and apart. Streamlined limbs, muscles ripple, curves sculpt. Winding in the beat my breath catches, my veins pulsate. Suspended in beauty, I sit. My last balmy night in Sofia. Summer nights. Piazza nights. Tango nights. The fountain behind me gurgles and sprays it’s dewy mist lightly onto my summer frock. Flanked by the vermilion facade of the Ivan Vazov National Theatre the bronze ballerina positions her arabesque. This is Sofia in all her beauty. I shall miss her.