On the train to Budapest, my phone lights up and switches to the T-mobile Hungary network. No one’s asked for my papers so it’s the only way I know for sure we’ve crossed the border.
A woman sits down opposite. Because her outfit is of shiny, black, synthetic fabric and round metal studs on jeans, boots and bag, I think how typically eastern European she looks.
We pass wind turbines, their blades disappearing into the mist at the highest point of their rotation.
T-mobile beeps through a text message. It’s the Syrians. I should be able to pick up my visa in Budapest.