There has been a West African wedding at the church. A woman in a floor length dress (vivid green with twisting flecks of yellow, a sapphire-blue buttress) pushes a baby stroller, so drab and conservative against her vibrant wardrobe and immaculate makeup.
The whole neighborhood feel oddly flat against the bustling wedding guests. The air is still with just enough humidity to leave my skin feeling stiff and heavy. The traffic which passes unceasing emits but a dull murmur: every car seems some flat yet spotless shade of grey. The sidewalk is straight and as the balls of my feet hit the surface the only word which comes to mind is solid . . . solid solid solid. The sky is white, also solid, such contrast to the young mother’s dress. It feels close, almost oppressive (if it were slightly more humid). A limo wrapped in pink tulle (rose ornaments) rolls by so softly I almost miss it, only turning to the sleek vehicle’s purr at the last moment. Men in fitted suits usher it into the church yard as little girls congregate about it, their big probing dark eyes reflecting the starched white of their party dresses. Sweet perfume like jasmine mingles with the aged church bricks as a group of young men and women emerge from the yard. The women’s dresses are tight and electric in hue and pattern; the men wear shiny suits, sculpted jackets extending to their thighs, sharp pleats in pants. The speak in passionate and rapid fire German, the type which passes beyond your conscious while still penetrating your ears. Somehow I’m caught off guard, perhaps having expected instead to hear a more flowing African tongue. Church bells clatter but still as if muffled. I lick my lips and taste only the bleached dry skin of the dehydrated. This place is muted. A neighborhood cast by the Soviets as a simple canvas. Dry yet sticky, extending yet still. It is only the wedding guests which lend it life and what life. They walk upright and vivacious through the two dimensional landscape in a contrast almost more shocking than appealing. Shocking because such contrast can only exist if everything but the players is flat and I am not one of the players on this stage. I walk on and the laughter of young children and cheerful discussion of wedding guests slices through the starkness of all around them. I walk on and I am silent. Solid. A bit of canvas.
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AuthorStudent at the University of Washington, Sophie Aanerud, will be studying abroad in Berlin, Germany. Here are some of her thoughts . . . Archives
August 2017
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