Evening. Suddenly, we've found ourselves in the middle of summer. This peculiar feeling I remember from all the Julys I spent in Warsaw when the heavy afternoon air has heated up and thickened and you can almost touch it like you can touch a wall or skin. We're walking down broad streets someone once outlined sparing no space for life, motion and Russian conversations. At the crosswalk, I take a photo of two women, both wearing long white linen dresses, with their hair black and hip long. Somebody will say later on, when watching the photos, that it was a Ukrainian bride fair, with the girls ready-to-marry. There is a gentle breeze coming from the sea which makes the swollen heat bearable. When we reach Potemkin Stairs, the salty wind grows stronger and plays with the linen sheets with the portraits of the actors from the 1920s painted on them. They look surrealistically and when we get back on the following day, the exhibition of the ghosts with dark lines around their eyes is all gone. Far away in the darkness the huge port is looming. The Port of Odessa. Just a few steps away, at the crossroads, a row of women blocks the street and a car can't pass. The driver is beeping. Wedge-heels won't move. Colorful artificial nails make the Russian argumentation more expressive. I take a few shots with the flash. The prostitutes send the international 'fuck you' sign to me. The car passes through, the driver doesn't take any of the girls with him.
Heavy evening lilacs. Ukrainian beer. Long sleep.
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