Much of my journey in Kazakhstan was about understanding the legacy of the Soviet times and finding out what remained of nomadic.

I love the Altai Mountains. Crimea, despite all the conflict, is a remarkable place historically, culturally and physically. The mountains drop down into the sea. Porpoises swim in the shallows. Horses gallop through the grass. There are huge rocks, castles, caves.

In wider spaces, people bearing historical grudges with each other were separated by the muting qualities of distance.

Had I not stepped into the saddle in the first place, entire cultures, histories, and most importantly, profound connections with people and animals whom I now counted as my friends would have otherwise passed by, invisible.

People can't go into the street endlessly. My friends get asked why aren't they going to the next protest? They answer, 'Because we're tired of being thousands. I'm ready to become the 100,000th person at a rally, but I don't want to be the 10,000th. Because it's pointless.'

In college, I'd gone abroad to get away from a campus where I felt I didn't fit in. And I started writing fiction, at least in part, because it was a way to feel like I was around people, to feel the energy and hum of others' inner lives, without the real-time frustrations and difficulties of actual relationships.

When you grumble about a taxi being dirty, people your own age will absolutely agree with you, whereas younger people say, 'You should be so lucky to have a taxi - I walk to work!' So I have lots of young friends, who fortunately don't treat me as a guru, a person that knows all the answers.

We're married. We are one now. There's no running away. We have to deal with things together and figure them out, and that's the greatest gift. I'm in it. People ask me, 'How do you maintain a relationship?' I don't know, but all I do know is that I chose Sara to be the one, and when I choose something, that's all that matters, and I'm totally in.