When the train eased out of Bakırköy station in Istanbul, our cabin steward Eduardo handed us the first of many flutes of Champagne. I settled into a plush seat across from my mother, crystal in hand, and toasted the beginning of a trip we’d both imagined for decades.
It had been a last-minute invitation on my part: could she fly from Wisconsin to join me on the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express? She said yes. My mother—recently retired from a long career as a librarian and the woman who first read Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express more than forty years ago—was finally boarding the very sleeper carriage, Sleeping Car 3309, long associated with the novel’s legend.
Sleeping Car 3309 is the oldest on the train and the carriage famously stranded in a 1929 snow event that later inspired Christie’s plot. Today it houses several Grand Suites. Our five-night itinerary threaded from Istanbul through Bulgaria, Romania, Hungary, and Austria before finishing in Paris, stopping in cities like Bucharest and Budapest along the way. Each carriage—swathed in lush velvet, intricate marquetry, and gleaming brass—feels like a slice of the past, some with modern artist-designed commissions that nod to contemporary craft while honoring the train’s Art Deco roots.
Evening one felt theatrical in the best way. We dressed in black tie and navigated narrow, swaying corridors toward the Étoile du Nord dining car, one of the train’s restored 1920s dining rooms. There’s an unspoken glamour aboard: feathers and sequins, tuxedos and pearls, guests moving through spaces that seem to belong in another era. Dinner by chef Jean Imbert—caviar, pan-fried scallops, an epic cheese course—was followed by negronis and live music in the 1931-built Bar Car. Later, rocked into a deep sleep in our Grand Suite Prague, we sank into lacquered woods, marquetry, and a marble en suite that felt like a private Art Deco apartment on rails.
We woke to Bulgaria and, as the train rolled toward Romania, lounged in matching bathrobes with coffee and a basket of fresh pastries, the bespoke porcelain chiming softly as the carriage listed. The Istanbul–Paris route is paced so guests sometimes spend nights off the train; at Bucharest Nord our overnight bags were whisked to a stationary five-star hotel and we met our guide, Nicoletta.
A stroll through Bucharest’s historic center included a stop at the magnificent bookstore Cărturești Carusel, where I picked up a couple of Romanian novels. That evening we joined the other passengers at Caru’ Cu Bere, a storied beerhouse where dinner and dancing felt both boisterous and perfectly local. The next morning we wandered markets—Piata Eroilor was a bounty of jars of honey, covrigi (Romanian pretzels), ripe cherries, and tempting homemade liqueurs—before heading to the mountain town of Sinaia to explore Peles Castle.
Back on board that night, turbot on our plates and another toast of Champagne, the train crossed into Hungary. Morning arrival in Budapest brought a rare treat: our guide Edina gave us access to the usually closed Royal Waiting Hall at Nyugati Station, built by the French company associated with Gustave Eiffel. The afternoon unfurled like a confection: slices of Esterházy and Dobos torte across a tour of historic cafés—Művész, the New York Café, Café Gerbeaud—each bite paired with the kind of historical context that delighted my history-obsessed mother.
Much of the trip’s magic lived in the in-between hours on board. There’s a special quality to time spent between waking and the first coffee, between suite and dining car, between cocktail and dinner—those soft pockets when the passing landscape becomes the main event. My favorite ritual with my mom has always been simply being together with books open between us. On this trip, though, I discovered a small reversal: whenever I looked up from my page, my mother was no longer bent over a novel but gazing fixedly out the window, absorbed by the changing countryside.
Our last night was lively and warm. The bar car filled with fellow travelers from around the world, a resident pianist at the baby grand taking requests, and conversations spilling into the corners. I nursed a martini, watching my mother animated and bright—she was glowing from the company, the new friendships, and the never-quite-believable feeling of being aboard the storied train. It felt like a rare privilege to travel at all; it felt even rarer to do it with someone I love.
Practical note: the five-night Istanbul–Paris and the reverse Paris–Istanbul journeys run limited departures and are priced at the premium end of luxury travel. In 2026 the route is scheduled to operate twice, with fares starting around $53,310 USD per passenger. The company also offers new themed itineraries—Villeggiatura by Train—linking Paris with destinations such as Venice and the Amalfi Coast for travelers seeking similar rail experiences.
By the time we pulled into Paris, the trip had been equal parts spectacle and quiet companionship: glittering nights, carefully plated meals, and long hours of shared silence broken only by the soft rhythm of the rails and the ever-changing view beyond the window.
