*Written in 1986 after crossing the Czech-Polish frontier* Since the ending of the _Cold War_, crossing East European frontiers has become a less chilling experience than it once was. In the bad old days, one awaited with trepidation the attentions of immigration officers. Their aggressive faces conjured up images of Siberia-bound journeys.   A speciality - and most fearsome of all - was the female variety. These all-in-wrestling types seemed, for some strange reason, especially threatening. You somehow expected them to draw a gun at any moment and shoot you in the foot. A pleasant change it was, therefore, to encounter a new type of immigration officer on a recent visit to Eastern Europe. While not exactly straight out of the best tourist guide schools, these officers definitely exuded new warmth. Picture the inside of a railway sleeping compartment. My wife and I are travelling by overnight train across two frontiers. We know better than to expect a good night's sleep. But even so we are unprepared for the visits of no less than ten different officials during a four-hour period. (Is this a serious attempt to deal with the unemployment crisis?) It all begins when the door opens, an officer switches on the light to half strength and announces, "Kontroll". Before we can proffer our passports he is gone. Some ten minutes later a second man appears in the doorway. "Kontroll", he bellows as he switches the light on to full. Good, we think from somewhere far away in our slumber world, let's get this over. But no, he too passes on and out of our lives. Five minutes later the key man arrives - the one who stamps the passports. All's well. But, well, that's not all. A few minutes later a customs officer enters our compartment. Fortunately she speaks some kind of English: "Your declaration, please". "What declaration?" I mumble through my pillow. "No one gave me any declaration." Wearily (is she sleepier than we?) she produces two forms and we sign them. She seems satisfied and departs. Some minutes later the whole process is repeated with the officers of the country we are entering. Passports are okay. Then another customs officer, again a woman. Though built as a prize fighter, her face definitely has a friendly look. "Have you any cameras, radios, video cameras?" she enquires. "No video camera," I reply, "and we're only transitting your country anyway. We'll be gone before morning." "Regulations," she explains. "Regulations are regulations," and manages a smile. "Yes," I agree, "Regulations are regulations."