It was past nine when we arrived at Bukhara’s railway station. We were taking the overnight Orient Express to Tashkent. The dry winter mist from Zarafshan river had enveloped the station, most of whose buildings were shadowy gallery of rooftops and glassy windows. On the platform arriving passengers were yawning, shambling in fatigue. The potters leaned on luggage carriers, our carriage was being coupled with the Orient-Express, whose door was t…