The first time I entered an airport

I was ten. Sheremetyevo,

Moscow, 1979. We were emigrating

to the West. Leaving

meant never coming back – it

was on a par with going into

outer space – an airplane to

the Moon. It is almost impossible

to describe what entering

that airport represented.

I remember a large queue,

relatives, suitcases, swift

processing in an institutional

hall devoid of any colour. No

other airport has ever had the

same sensational effect on 

me. Its power was sustaining

when I returned to it in the

early 90s during a stopover on

my way to Tokyo. I understood

then why the Soviet block

was referred to by Westerners

as ‘grey’. It simply lacked

advertising – advertising that

colours the whole of the Western

World.