Here, There and…, 2006
I push the door slightly. No use, it’s blocked. Well, what would you expect? In classic Soviet olive-green taxies, everlasting Volgas-GAZ 24 clocking up to 400,000 kilometres, the door behind the driver’s seat is almost always locked. Usually the explanation is concern for passengers’ safety. But in this case… Being pressed against a locked taxi door with two other passengers and an excessively friendly driver inside was somehow disagreeing with my own safe behaviour on business trips concept. Why haven’t I followed my own ISM-Individual, not Shared, Minicabs-Code? Might be, yesterday’s Murmansk ice race has somewhat upset my routine. Has made me ponder over distracting matters. Like what is it all about. And like how come I’ve ended up testing reliability of transpolar Ladas instead of comfortably sipping tea in my office up in Minories, London EC3N… Jan ’91. 11, Oakeshott Avenue NW6, London Well, to be quite honest, I’ve always liked travelling. But not before moving to London back in January 1991 did I develop a true passion for the Road. The Road in the physical sense of the word, rustling under the wheels. And the Road as a mode of living..