[letter from novosibirsk] tales from the former soviet union

Just looked out of my eighth floor balcony window and can’t make out what they’re doing across the road. I’m on what was once a relatively quiet street but is now a six lane highway, replete with median strip; and opposite used to be a carpark which has always fascinated. For two years I used to wake up in the early morning, golden sun streaming through and highlighting the golden parquet floor and cars could be seen, over the way, doing strange things. There’d be seven or eight of ‘em and they’d trace their way along the edges of the park, then turn in perfect synchronicity and make geometric progressions to different points on the chart, then turn about on themselves and retrace their steps. Sheer ballet in metal, affording hours of intrigue, if you’d been so inclined. The answer took a long time coming.