At Sheremetyevo my rucksack and boots attracted security: a document check. “Young man, are you for Amsterdam or Beijing?” asked the woman at the baggage desk. “Beijing.” “I don’t envy you,” she said, nodding at the Chinese passengers furiously wrapping their luggage in tape.
On the plane I met my namesake, another Oleg, who also loves mountains more than plains and keeps the last snow of winter in his freezer. “It doesn’t fit in my head,” he said. “We are flying to Asia. It’s dangerous to realise this sober.”
The night was very short. Eight hours later, through an icy window: the mountains of Asia.
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