Crossing borders

Border crossing
My expectations of the border crossing deeply contrasted the scene unfolding before me.  It was my first time travelling into Eastern Europe and, to be honest, I anticipated some sort of line in the ground; a defining marker establishing East from West.  Instead, my train rolled into a locomotive graveyard.
Still on the German side of the German/Czech boarder, the train began to squeal to a halt and the driver announced the final destination.
'Meine Damen und Herren, unser nächste Haltestelle...'  
My mind drifted away as I absorbed the impact of the modern, shiny white German train crashing into a landscape scattered with rusted shells of the past.  My stomach sank whilst the hollow and lifeless carcasses stared back at me, overgrown and sprouting weeds, flowers and scrubs.  
'und sank you for trawelling wiz zee Deutsche Bahn'...
The passengers began disembarking. I snapped back to reality.
I had only two minutes to change trains.  Quickly, I gathered my things and hastily disembarked, desperately trying to locate my next train.  This, however, was unlike any other train station I had seen.  There was only one track, no other trains in sight.  The mix of railway stones and grass crunched beneath me as I followed my fellow passengers.  The human current flowed towards the only building, its walls stained yellow with age, the window and door frames freshly painted white, already peeling in the heat.  Walking by, I peered into the desolate interior; a few upturned wooden benches and tables dotted its dusty surface. No signs of life.
Abruptly, I found myself flat footed before the border guard I had failed to notice in my dazed consumption of the decay and eeriness engulfing me.  My eyes danced between the gun gingerly dangling around his neck and the stern eyes critically eyeballing me from head to toe.  My hands were passportless.. Hypnotised, my hand drifted into my pocket and presented my passport.  I was waved passed the single guard, still eyeballing me whist authorising the next passenger through without a single glance at the passport.
My isolation set in.  One minute to change trains.  The vacant station lying before me and empty street was of little help.  The only functional train in the graveyard was the one I had arrived on and the other passengers had all already disappeared.  I was alone with the border guard whose glare was still fixed on me.  I asked for help.  Despite speaking different languages, it was still an elaborate conversation and he was more than willing to help.  
His leathered finger sent me towards one of the broken train shells I had previously dismissed.  As I drifted forward, the engine spluttered to life and I was swept aboard in haste.  The beauty of this rugged machinery was breathtaking.  The tugging sounds of commotion began and the locomotive began to lurch forward, hurling me down into to the fading royal red leather seats amid the compartments beautifully aged wooden carcass.  
 
I was surrounded by the same stern faces that had met me at the crossing, curiously analysing the young traveller.  I began to notice that in each of these withered faces was a slight hint of a cheerful smile hidden behind the masks of age.  Much like the unseen beauty of the train and helpfulness of the guard, these people were to shape my time in the Czech Republic more than they or I could imagine.  Whilst I sat in the rattling compartment, watching the baron Czech countryside hurl by, I realised that in the haste of buying my spontaneous week trip into the unknown I had failed to recognise that I only had 2 Euros in my bank account...