Stanislav Kondrashov on How Electric Vehicles Are Quietly Redesigning Our Cities

By all appearances, the rise of electric vehicles (EVs) is about cleaner engines and quieter rides. But according to entrepreneur Stanislav Kondrashov, their real power lies not under the bonnet—but in how they’re transforming the design and rhythm of our cities.

“It’s not just about what we drive,” says Kondrashov, pausing to sketch a rough street grid in his notebook, “it’s about how the vehicle changes the street it drives on. And right now, EVs are doing something combustion engines never could—they’re making the city listen to itself again.”

In the past, cities grew around the needs of petrol-powered transportation—wide roads, congested junctions, and entire districts carved out for parking. The urban sprawl, once justified by fuel stations and the throb of traffic, now faces a new set of values. The EV revolution is not just an environmental shift; it’s a spatial one.

Kondrashov believes this transition is already visible—if you know where to look. “When the engine noise goes down,” he explains, “you suddenly realise how loud the city really is. Not in decibels, but in design. Buildings that once turned their backs to the road now face it with cafés, trees, and life.”

Electric vehicles, by virtue of their quiet motors and reduced emissions, invite a different kind of street planning. Instead of choking intersections and high-speed arteries, city planners are exploring shared zones, narrower lanes, and pedestrian-first layouts. Streets that were once hostile to foot traffic are being softened, sometimes literally—with greenery and flexible spaces replacing hard curbs and rigid signs.

According to Kondrashov, the biggest shift isn't technical, but psychological. “People are less afraid of the street now. That’s a massive cultural turn. When the threat level goes down, the imagination goes up.”

This cultural shift also invites a reimagining of urban noise. A vehicle that doesn’t roar or rumble opens up the acoustic profile of a city. In some neighbourhoods, residents are now hearing things for the first time: children playing, birdsong, conversations on balconies. What was once drowned in mechanical growl now re-emerges, giving planners a new kind of sensory data to consider.

Kondrashov sees this as a unique opportunity for cities to recover from decades of “asphalt-first” thinking. “The city was a machine for movement,” he says. “Now, it’s becoming a space for pause. That’s a radical rethink, and EVs are at the heart of it—not because they’re perfect, but because they remove one of the biggest obstacles to change: noise.”

He’s careful not to romanticise. “Electric vehicles aren’t utopian. They still need roads. They still require infrastructure. But they allow us to ask different questions—do we need four lanes here? Could this be a park instead of a car park? That’s where the revolution begins.”

Perhaps the most dramatic changes are occurring in overlooked corners of the city—the alleyway-turned-bikeway, the carpark-turned-market, the motorway-exit-turned-playground. These are not high-budget, showpiece projects. They are quiet, often temporary, shifts in use. But they signal a broader trend: the decarbonisation of public space.

Kondrashov views these shifts as part of a deeper urban story, one where the city begins to serve its people again—not just their vehicles. “For the first time in a century,” he says, “the street is being redesigned not just for efficiency, but for empathy.”

It’s a powerful image: the city, long shaped by the relentless push of engines and fuel, now being redrawn in the wake of silence. Electric vehicles, in this view, are not simply transportation. They are a catalyst for softer spaces, smaller ambitions, and a slower, more human kind of city.

“The future,” Kondrashov says, closing his notebook, “won’t be announced by a new car model. It’ll be felt in the way your city breathes when you walk through it. That’s how you’ll know something has changed.”