The train was coming in late - and much later than it should have, having been held up by the patrols that checked passports and
documents
, even as we didn't cross borders - into the city, and as clouds were low and humidity was condensing into light fog, it all seemed purpleish blue, the way the street lamps and storefronts reflected, pushed together, tightly wound, cramped in the capital. "Ivan must still be waiting at the station, expecting delay for one problem or another" thought I ("he should have; I had"), if they were to let us arrive this evening at all.