Tuesday, May 7, 2013

The Police On the Train Don't Like Me

My first head-of-the-train-car lady was rad (the one from the trip from Moscow to Vologda). She took good care of me.

This time I had a man. He glared.

Then he got the police to come stare at me.
He pointed me out to them.

They asked for “documents.”

Then they stared some more. I stared back.

The only thing that could be a hitch was that I'm currently registered in Moscow. You have to register at the post-office after being someplace for more than seven days and I hadn't yet spent more than seven days in any location so, technically I was good to go – but the police men aren't exactly known for being on top of things here or having your best intentions in mind.

I wasn't worried, really. Not at full ease, but I knew things would work out. In time, they always do.
I had a visa.
I had a ticket.
Set to go, right?

The three of them all crowded around, gruffly gruff beards and the dismal crinkle-brow of a Russian. The perfectly made up girl in my compartment glared as well – probably horrified that they even considered that we might be traveling together.

They looked at my passport a few more times and then left.

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